


Of Dreams and Demons

by samidha



Series: Of Dreams and Demons [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU pre-series, AU season 4, Addiction, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bobby Singer's Panic Room, Canon-Typical Horror, Complete, Dean Has Powers, Dean Winchester Has Powers, Dean is 4, Dreams, Dreams and Nightmares, Dreamsharing, Episode AU: s04e21 When the Levee Breaks, Episode: s01e01 Pilot, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Psychic Sam, Gen, Mute Dean, Mute Dean Winchester, Near Death Experiences, One of My Favorites, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Parallel Universes, Pre-Series, Pre-Series Dean, Pre-Series Dean Winchester, Pre-Series Sam, Pre-Series Sam Winchester, Prophetic Dreams, Psychic Abilities, Psychic Bond, Psychic Dean, Sam Dreams, Season/Series 01, Season/Series 04, Season/Series 06, Selectively Mute Dean, Selectively Mute Dean Winchester, Teenchesters, The author's happy place, Time Travel, Tiny Dean, Wee Dean, Wee Sam, Weechesters, angst and schmoop, episodic, mandela effect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-18 07:46:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 35
Words: 53,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11286804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samidha/pseuds/samidha
Summary: The thing that is not a man pays a visit to the Winchesters on November 2, 1983, and things don't go quite as anyone would expect--for those who are expecting anything.Complete July 6, 2017Book 1: 15/15 chapters, complete.Book 2: 16-35 (19 chapters, some quite short)





	1. Of Dreams and Demons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [monicawoe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/monicawoe/gifts).



> Begun before the comics existed, has some tiny things in common with the beginning of the comics. This was written from 2008-2011 as a 'verse and is 90% written (and then some). I have cut a lot due to the limited amount I can do with a bunny this old, long ranging, and with the limited notes I had left. I finished the ending, so it's complete . Nostalgia city. A few outtakes have been posted in separate parts from this for Reasons. Slated to span weechester life, seasons 1-4, becoming a season 4 AU and covering some aspects of S6. Originally hosted on LiveJournal (and Dreamwidth), but not in its finished state. 
> 
> The ending has been written, AND POSTED, this is not a drill, it seemed too nebulous to end for 9 years and now it's done.
> 
>  
> 
> Playlist (lots of The Devlins):
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/user/121274586/playlist/7Ma2V6FAUCn2TamJsAs6IE

Mary dreamed of it for three days before it happened. So when the baby monitor registered that night with that extra hiss-pop-whistle under the sounds of little Sammy awake in the middle of the night, it took her a few moments to realize this time was real.

“John?” He wasn’t going to be there. She turned and found the bed empty. Now she got up and headed down the hall to Sammy’s room. She saw the silhouette she knew was not John’s. Of course she knew. He was her husband. They had had two children together. She knew the lines of his silhouette in the dark from years of lying beside it, under it, over it. Still, when the thing that was not John put a finger to its lips she said, “Okay,” a little irritated because she knew this was wrong but she couldn’t stop herself from moving out of the room.

She moved to the light over the landing and tapped, stopping its buzzing and blinking, just like it was every night this week. The television was on downstairs, and she knew she had to go down there, had to see the silhouette that was John’s, before she’d get a chance to move on her own again. There he was and the spell broke. She rocketed up the stairs, screaming. You bastard. You bastard. You won’t take my angel. I don’t care how this has gone before. You won’t. “Sammy!”

*~*~*

Dean stood in his doorway, and he didn’t know why, he just knew the house felt wrong, something was wrong. Then he heard his mother on the stairs and her screaming his brother’s name and his tiny legs were pumping as fast as he could go to get into the nursery.

He saw the thing that was not his father, and he heard wetness dripping from somewhere. His little boy scream joined his mother’s, high and loud.

*~*~*

Mary rounded the corner, stopping dead. “Dean, no,” she said, low, scared, and defeated. This part, she didn’t dream. But she knew why he was here.

“Sammy,” he said, and pointed, and then at the shadow of the man who was not a man.

“You!” Mary screamed, launching herself at the man, and being slammed against the wall for her efforts, legs still spread mid-stride. “No! Dean, run!”

“Mama!”

“Run!”

He sprang into action, and Mary was flooded with relief despite everything—despite him being here, it. Dean would know what to do.

*~*~*

Dean dove for the crib, scrambling up the side and reached his little arms in for Sammy. He had to get Sammy. He could do that. Then he’d run.

When he had Sam tucked safe inside his arms just the way his mother taught him, she was hanging high on the wall and screaming and that was when Dean knew that he had to run—just him and Sammy—for real.

“Mama?!”

“Go, Dean!”

Dean ran, he ran without looking back because he had Sam. Sam couldn’t take care of himself. That was Mama and Daddy’s and Dean’s job. So he ran. Right into his father coming off the landing into the hall. His father screamed Mama’s name and looked down at Dean, blinking.

“Daddy!”

The first sound of the flames reached John’s ears. “Take your brother outside and don’t look back, Dean, go!”

Dean went in a haze, hearing his father screaming for Mama behind him. But Dean knew that fire was bad and his mother was stuck to the wall by the thing that was not his father, the thing that had dripped things on Sammy, and Dean was scared. His mama told him there were angels, but in church Dean heard about the Devil and what if the Devil was getting Mama now? The Devil always made lots of fire.

Dean made it out into the cold, but it wasn’t cold enough because the house was so hot. The air itself might burn him up, so he ran as far as he could, to the edge of their grass, because Daddy always said stay on the grass and never in the street.

“It’s okay, Sammy,” he said, even though Sammy didn’t know what they said in church and he didn’t know the Devil was inside making fire. He just kept holding on to little Sammy the way they told him so he wouldn’t get hurt and waited for someone to come out of the big fire.

But then his daddy came out without his mama, and he never saw Daddy sad before, but he was now, and just like he knew he had to go in Sam’s room, Dean knew that it was just them now. There was a face in his head like a dream and it had yellow eyes, and it told him. Then the face made a sound telling Dean to ssh, and he did.

Dean didn’t want to talk anymore anyway, not if he wasn’t ever going to have a mama again. So he let the Devil take his words away. He didn’t need them anymore.

\--  
2.

John hunched over, staring down in puzzlement at his silent four-year-old boy.

They had been repeating this scene for days now. Days. Not a word from Dean.

He couldn’t take this. That was just the truth of it. John Winchester operated on bare truth, on facts. The truth was that this thing had changed his little boy as surely as it had taken Mary, and it was killing John.

He was seriously losing it. He was favoring bars and brawls over work at the garage. Yesterday he kicked the shit out of some gangly kid. Barely legal to be sitting there with a row of spent fucking PBRs. He had just… given John that look. That one people were giving him now. Crazy motherfucker.

He had said, “You try it, you try losing your fucking wife,” and kicked the kid’s chair out from under him.

He called Jim and he didn’t have to say anything, just her name in a hoarse cry, almost bitten off by the hitch in his breath.

“Come here,” Jim said, “Tonight.” His voice was strange and certain, like he knew something. Or maybe John just wished he did.

John was silent on the other end of the line, thinking how he shouldn’t want to go just because it’d been offered to him, he must have arrangements to make. Something. But then he remembered, there was nothing left, nothing left of her, like he made Mary up, and that was making the cops mutter to themselves, just not loud enough for it to be an official thing. He could bury an empty coffin long distance. There was no use talking to him about funerals, closure. He knew there wouldn’t be any. And Dean hadn’t spoken, to John’s knowledge, since one word on the landing.

Maybe Dean would talk for the Pastor. John knew sure as shit that he needed to talk. He needed answers—something concrete. A ridiculously well-read Pastor was about the best idea John had for someone to talk to about a goddamn hellfire starting in his house. Coming from his wife’s body. Coming out of Mary.

John gunned it all the way to Minnesota, only stopping for diapers and formula, cheeseburger Happy Meals for Dean. Dean could feed and change Sammy now, if John set him up right, and John let him because the boy clearly wanted to. He knew it as sure as he knew his sons’ names. He tried not to think that maybe it was weird Dean was so good at it at his age, and still silent as a mime while he worked. He didn’t need to talk to take care of Sammy and John wondered if that was part of it, that it was something safe and quiet. He felt a little sick that it made any sense to him for his four-year-old boy to think like that.

John was burning too much money on spilt formula and extra diaper changes that needed to be done when Dean forgot how tight they needed to be, but the boy was doing something. Dean was intent on it. Purposeful at age four. And John didn’t know why, exactly, but not knowing that was something he could live with. It was a small thing.

*~*~*

The first word that Dean Winchester said after the fire was “Sammy.” It snapped John out of his own mind so hard and fast it was like a bomb going off. Dean was asleep, but twisting and squirming as much as he could in his car seat in the back seat of the Impala. “Sammy…” How could a four-year-old have dread like that in his voice?

Just has to be my son, John thought, and his chest and throat ached. Just a Winchester.

It had been three weeks since he’d called the Pastor and took off in the late fall air. They had spent two whole weeks there, and in any other circumstance that would have been an extremely luxurious vacation for him and the boys. Without Mary there, though, it was merely a string of days, and with two boys who didn’t speak, the time had stretched almost too long for John.

Now he was back in the car, driving back to Kansas at Jim’s urgings. There’s someone there you need to see, he had said. He could have saved John a lot of driving if he’d said all this before John set out for Minnesota to begin with, but then, he’d only suggested seeing this woman after he’d heard the entire tale, some of it several times, and none of that had been territory John wanted to go over on the phone.

They were on the second day of the drive when his youngest son’s name startled him out of his personal fog of pain and fear and missing her.

He wanted to be relieved. He should have been relieved. But his skin prickled at the sound and he found himself with only one thought.

Will it always be like this?

It was all he could do to pull himself back together and head for the shoulder of the road. He needed to wake Dean up. It was a nightmare—had to be. When he turned around to finally talk to the boy, the words came out in a bark, and he winced, but it was already done.

“Wake up!”

It was an order. John Winchester, ex-marine, had issued an order to his four-year-old. If John could have done it, he would have punched himself in the damn face.

He was losing it.

Dean woke up, all right, and his green eyes were full of fear, pointed right at John. His little fingers ran nervously through the tiny but noticeable wave of his baby brother’s hair. Then his eyes changed. Calm and protective. Centered. And far too old.

“I’m sorry, son,” John said. “Daddy’s under a lot of stress…”

Dean gave a tiny nod, and no words.

John turned, had to look away again. He started the Impala, and the feel of the engine alive again soothed him just enough. He pulled back onto the road and sped along the nearly empty stretch, finally breathing right again, though he wasn’t sure he should be.

After that, John wasn’t sure how things were going to go with Dean. He had no way of knowing how long his…slip or whatever the hell that was would affect his son. He knew nothing good could come of what had happened, but that couldn’t have prepared him for what came next. Nothing could have prepared him for that.

“Sammy’s hungry,” Dean said, like a switch had turned inside of him. Maybe it was finished, then, the silence.

Sammy was quiet, though. He hadn’t fussed for anything in over an hour.

John turned a little in his seat and made sure to keep his voice soft and level when he spoke to his older son. “He seems okay to me,” he said. “If he needs something, he’ll let us know.”

“But—“

Sam extended one of his chubby baby arms and opened and closed his tiny fist once, then twice, and let out just one hiccup of a cry.

“See?” Dean said, not annoyed, just matter-of-fact.

John’s eyebrows shot up before he could stop them, because… because he did not need any more of this weird shit.

“Okay,” he said tiredly, and fished in the passenger seat for a bottle, passing it back to Dean, who was smiling.

Well, that was something. That was good. Had to be. If John’s stomach was flipping just a little, he’d just been on the road too long. They’d find a diner and sit for a while. He’d get Dean a real burger and draw a wriggly worm on the top in ketchup to make Dean squeal until he made things safe again by squishing it with the bun.

*~*~*

Jim had given him the address of a woman—a palm reader or something ridiculous like that, John tried not to think about it. Her name was Missouri Mosley. If you had asked John, he would have said she sounded like some kind of carnie or maybe something worse, but he had to admit she wasn’t the Mysterious Magickal Missouri Mosley or whatever the hell, and he trusted Jim. The thing about it was, they’d served together. Sure, Jim hadn’t been on the front lines, but that didn’t mean he didn’t see his share of hell—in fact, maybe working in the field hospitals and trying his best to counsel the men in his pastoral role meant he saw more, in a way. And he knew John was solid in his mind, because they’d made it back together and crossed paths more than once since then, so John had to give the Pastor the same benefit of the doubt. So he went to see the woman who could just as well be a carnie freak as anything but probably wasn’t.

Her face screwed up when she saw John, but her attention went like a magnet to little Dean, sucking his thumb and staring like he always seemed to these days. They’d gone in with Sammy in Dean’s arms, because when John had tried to pull the baby away Dean had shrieked, and John really could barely handle the fact that they were here, let alone his kid’s post-traumatic-whatever, and God, he was four… John just couldn’t think about that anymore. He needed answers. That was why they were here and that was what he was going to focus on. So they all three went in like that and Missouri looked like she’d swallowed a lemon when she looked at the Winchester men, and if that didn’t just fit John didn’t know what did anymore, even as he felt a surge of indignation.

“Dean Winchester,” she said, “you poor boy,” before John had said word one. Her voice managed to be warm even with the sadness in it. Still, he looked at her hard.

“Did Jim call you?” he asked in a tone that sounded rough even to him.

“Nobody’s gotta call Missouri, honey, you should know that much,” she said, and John had to work to hold back a shiver.

Dean was watching Missouri with his eyes big and round in his face, sucking hard on that thumb. She looked like she wanted to say more to him but held whatever it was back. She offered a smile that made her face soft and she looked motherly. John was pretty sure his son wouldn’t smile back, though, and he was right. The boy looked about like he wanted to disappear.

“I need to know—“

“What you need to do first, John Winchester, is watch out for these boys of yours. But come on, boys, come on back. I’ve got cookies ready, they should be just about cool by now. You’d like some cookies, wouldn’t you, Dean? Chocolate chip?”

Dean froze for a moment, but gave a reluctant nod, his eyes never losing that huge look.

Missouri put the boys in her kitchen—she worked from home, and her kitchen was pink and flowery. She set out a plate of six cookies—more sugar than John wanted to think about, but it could have been worse, there was a huge glass of milk, too. He followed her behind a curtain of beads, strings of blue and gold and red, some wood ones—Jesus, a bead curtain, tacky—and into her séance room or whatever it was.

“I mean it about those boys, John,” she said, again using a name she had never been given. “Get that look off your face, boy, I ain’t gonna eat you.”

John cleared his throat but said nothing and she went on.

“Listen, I better tell you this first so you’ll actually listen to what I say. You’re right about the fire. There was somethin’ evil in your house that night, John, an’ now it’s come and gone. All right?”

“Not really—but—“ he sighed and nodded. “And?”

“And now I suppose there ain’t nothin’ for it but for you to go after it. You’re not gonna rest ‘til that thing’s stopped from spreadin’ its evil in our world. I’ll be watchin’ that house.” It was a statement of fact, not an offer. “That’s in my backyard, so it’d be damn stupid not to. You’ve got bigger things on your plate than that, though, John.”

He nodded along as she spoke, his thoughts clearing for once. He had a job to do, and it would require tactics and planning. He pushed everything else away and focused on Missouri and her words.

“This is big, John. It ain’t just you. I think you know that, but now I’m tellin’ you, too. You’re going to help a lot of people, and don’t you forget that, hear me? It’s going to take some time and I can’t tell you how long. We don’t get that kind of stuff.”

John nodded.

“You keep that family of yours together and they’ll keep you strong, John. Don’t you forget them. You’re dealin’ with an evil, it can kill a man’s spirit, his fire.”

John swallowed hard and said nothing.

“I know you know about that, too. But you’ll be all right. You just hold onto those boys, and you fight hard. It’s all you can do. You have my number?”

“Thought nobody had to call you,” he said, and he could have smiled, but he didn’t.

She nodded. “Walked into that,” she admitted. She didn’t have to. “Now and again it’s a good idea, ‘f you really need me. Could happen.” Then she sighed. “John. I’m sorry.”

He gave a chin-jerk nod. It was genuine, coming from her, without an ounce of pity in it. He took out the light brown leather planner he had in the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled the pen from inside it. “Okay, let me have it.”

He didn’t like the idea of _needing_ to have a conversation like this again, but if he had to, he’d call her.

They went back into the kitchen to get the boys. At first, John couldn’t see Sam at all with the way Dean had him pressed tight against his chest. After John had assured himself that Sam had not in fact disappeared, but was only swaddled in his yellow blankie that Mary had crocheted for the baby while she was pregnant, he focused his attention on his older son.

That was when he realized Missouri had run ahead of him and was crouched in front of Dean. “Child,” John heard her say, and he looked up to see her put out a big hand toward him, but she didn’t touch him or Sam.

She stayed crouched there, but she moved back a little and was quiet, searching for something to say. Then she leaned forward and whispered something in Dean’s ear. He looked up at her, and John saw fresh tear tracks on his face, his eyes reddened from crying and still nearly brimming over. Dean was completely silent. He looked up at her and gave a solemn nod and she smiled a thin, sad smile down at him. She leaned in and whispered again and the boy took a shaky breath, but his features relaxed, and his grip on Sammy did too.

“You three’d best get yourselves gone from here,” Missouri said in a soft, serious tone. “It’s no good stayin’ with all that’s happened. Especially for this little one here,” she said, patting Dean’s hand. His eyes welled up again and she shook her head as she looked down at him. “Sweetheart,” she said tenderly, and Dean let her wipe the escaped tears away with her thumbs. “You just remember what I said. Your daddy’s got my number now. You all even think you need me, you make sure he calls, all right?”

He gave another solemn little nod, and she smiled bright down at him. “I know you will, darlin’. You’re a real big boy.”

She looked back to John and stood, crossing the room to him again. She lowered her voice for him alone, just as she had with Dean, and said: “He’s got to get out of here. You see what it’s doin’ to the boy,” she said. He did—of course he did—but John hated how right she was all the same, never mind the way she had just managed to get through to Dean when John—

She was still speaking, and he forced his thoughts away from the building resentment and back to the issues at hand.

“Anyway, you know what to do,” she said with finality, and she seemed to believe what she was saying, but he wasn’t even close to sure, himself. That didn’t matter, though. He needed to get out of there, to get behind the wheel of the Impala and put the rubber to the road, get as much distance between them and Lawrence as he possibly could.

John gave Missouri another of his silent nods and started to move, even though the only thing he really knew was how very, very fucked the three of them were. There was nothing to do about that now but move forward, and that meant getting gone. He pressed a small pile of bills into her hand and she opened her mouth to speak but shut it again. Then he put his hand on Dean’s shoulder and steered him out the door.

So it began.


	2. Rest for the Weary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It feels like he's been driving for days non-stop when John finally pulls off the highway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place shortly after Of Dreams and Demons and is the continuation of the 'verse, which begins with a spin on the pilot teaser. Familiarity with the previous fic may enhance enjoyment of this piece, but I think it stands alone fairly well.

John blinked and rubbed his eyes. The boys were both silent in the back of the Impala--though why he still took note of Dean's near-constant silence, he wasn't sure. What he did know was a bone-crushing exhaustion that had been building since halfway through Indiana and now, no more than five miles over the border of Kentucky, it hit him like a ton of bricks. His vision swam for a moment before he forced himself to sit up ram-rod straight and slammed the wheel with his fist. He focused on the resulting sensation and felt his mind clear. 

When he finally pulled off the highway, the blink-buzz of the motel sign (MOTE, actually. Mary would laugh and ask where the castle was, say they could do better--just let her take the wheel, and he would slide over with a smile, kissing her at the crook of her neck where she--) filled him with an almost manic relief. 

He pulled himself from the car and sprinted for the office to get the keys, slapped down the credit card he'd used to buy the last batch of the weapons with when Dean's ($4600) and Sammy's ($600) college funds had run dry. Spencer McMann had just put a roof over his boys' heads for the night. He took the keys with a half-nod and sprinted out the door again, back to them.

They were both sound asleep when he peeked in the window. Good. So tonight was a good night. Dean might sleep through the night if John was careful. 

He went for the duffles next--one of guns and one carrying his, Dean's, and Sammy's clothes all together. He'd take his chances with moving the boys last. 

The bags fell with a thump onto the bed near the door (ratty green-grey paisley bedspread, grey sheets pocked with burn marks. _God, Mary, I'm so sorry. Our boys...._ ) and he forced himself to keep moving, to keep his thoughts at bay for just that long. Back outside and to the car. He opened the door and grit his teeth through the squeal, braced to see Dean's eyes pop open, his body tense with ever-present fear.

But he only shifted closer to Sammy where the baby sat sleeping in his car-seat. John leaned down and undid the straps around Sammy, lifting the safety catch, and pulled both boys into his arms together. Balancing the two of them was precarious, but a necessary skill with Dean guaranteed to wake and know _instantly_ if Sam wasn't within reach. 

Once inside the motel room, he pulled the covers back with one hand and laid them down together. Dean encircled Sammy and pulled him close like always, one thumb sneaking its way into his slightly open mouth. With the covers settled over the boys, John fell onto his own bed, the bags already placed with practice to take up as much of the other half of his bed as possible.

Mary's half.

Bile rose in his throat and he forced his gaze back over to his sleeping sons. And that's when he saw Dean's arm poking out over the blankets, still covered in his winter jacket. Sammy must still be in his heavy clothes as well.

It was miles back, just over the Mason-Dixon, that the temperature had risen well into the sixties. They must have been sweltering.

He'd just been so tired....

John pulled himself back to his feet and pulled the zipper open on the clothing duffle, pulling out the large boy's He-Man t-shirt that Dean slept in on nights like these. It had been a present from Mary, and he should have remembered....

Next he pulled out a much smaller blue footless onesie for Sam, and then crossed to them, bracing himself again as he pulled back the covers and worked on undressing Dean while keeping Sam peaceful and settled close atop the blankets.

It turned out that two months of practice gave John a noticeable advantage.

Two months, three days, twenty hours since he lost everything--including the illusion that he could keep his boys safe, happy.

But his boys could sleep--there was that. 

He tucked them back against the sheets, pulled the blanket up, and relished Dean's soft sigh as he pulled Sam close again.

John fell back atop his own covers, beside the bag of clothes and the guns he absolutely couldn't leave inside the trunk of the Impala, his only thought that the boys might sleep tonight.


	3. Not Quite by Firelight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finally stops to think about what that look on Dean's face really means.

John had been on a dozen hunts before he thought about the way Dean's eyes get so big when he came in the door after a salt and burn. He'd been going on autopilot, caught somewhere between _Fucking Christ, this shit is real_ and _don't die, don't die, get home, don't die_ with a silver knife or a wooden stake in his hand and he just wasn't thinking about the kids.

They'd made it most of the way through the winter this way, past Dean's birthday, without Mary. Dean wasn't really talking much, but for this he made a special exception. John came home after hunt thirteen and Dean talked. The boy's eyes were huge in his five-year-old face and he looked up and asked, "Why d'you smell like burning, Daddy? Are you looking for Mommy?" and John felt the bottom drop out and he knew he never wants to hear his kid ask that again. 

He had to do something and he didn't care what the hell it was. He had to do something.

Dean stood close to Sammy, watching him while the toddler sucked happily from a bottle of juice. John sat Dean down beside his brother in front of the TV and switched it on. "Be back in ten, kiddo," he said, and he bolted for the car. His stomach was still turning over as he started her up and turned out of the motel lot toward the supermarket. He headed right for the candy aisle and picked up everything he could think of.

This was going to be one demented camping trip, in the lot of some fleabag place in the middle of North Dakota, but if he could get that _look_ off of his boy's face....

He grabbed three Hershey bars, a box of graham crackers and a bag of marshmallows. They were big enough that even the idea of eating them made him think of a sugar coma. He could still smell the stench of his night's work and his stomach turned again. He'd been coming home to his boys smelling like death for months now.

After what he let happen, maybe he deserved it, but they don't.

He took the bag of groceries from the girl with pink, puffy hair who's stuck on the overnight shift. She was distracting herself by practicing her stink-eye just for him, but he didn't give her long. He was in and out of the place in seven minutes flat and back on the road toward Dean and Sammy.

Dean's eyes were still big and scared when he looked up from the TV and back toward John. But John smiled anyway as best he could.

"Hey, Dean-o. You wanna know why you smell fire? I've been out practicing camping. I'm an old man now, not a Boy Scout anymore. I had to make sure I could still do it so I can teach you some day. Saved the fun part for you, though. The best part. C'mere. Let's go outside, kid, and I'll teach you how to make s'mores." 

Dean looked him right in the eye and John felt a rush of nervousness. Dean looked far too serious, and John thought of the way he was with Sammy and wondered if his boy could know that he was lying. Then Dean shook his head.

"Sammy doesn't want s'mores."

John felt relief flooding in despite himself. That was all. "Sammy doesn't know what a s'more is," he said.

But when he caught Sammy's eye, the toddler stared back at him like he was no one at all and then turned away, snuggling into Dean's side and John thought of how Dean is always right, always, and his skin prickled.

"We don't want any," Dean said. 

John slammed his fist into the table in the corner and Sam jumped. He turned to look at John and John watched fear blooming on his face, his eyes filling.

"Sammy," he said, moving forward, hating the way that Dean pulled the toddler even closer, protective, "I promise you'll like them. Here. Want to try a marshmallow?" He lowered the shopping bag to the nearby table and ripped the bag open. Sammy's eyes followed the marshmallow as John pulled one from the bag and presented it to him. 

Sam rubbed one eye fiercely with the back of his hand but he took the marshmallow and squished it between his fingers with a look of concentration on his face.

"See? Not so bad. You can eat them."

Sam raised the marshmallow near his mouth but he doesn't lower his bottle. 

Dean's eyes flashed with irritation seemingly at nothing, but John knew better. Dean was doing...whatever it was he did, and whatever he was finding he didn't like it. Sam was still focused on inspecting the marshmallow, oblivious, while Dean pulled back. Dean makes an "ew" face at Sam even though the toddler wasn't looking but John bets that won't be true for long. Sure enough, Sam's attention was back on Dean seconds later and Sammy was reaching his tight fist out to Dean, offering the marshmallow. Dean shook his head and shifted as if he was about to move away, but he stopped himself just before Sam started shaking the marshmallow out from between his fingers.

Dean sighed and took the marshmallow, looking down at the gooey mess in his hand while Sam smiled huge and bright and John felt the first stirrings of hope since he walked in the door.

"I don't know, Dean," he said, "Maybe he likes them." Dean scowled, but John pressed on. "Want to go outside, Sammy? You can have more marshmallows outside."

Sam pushed off of the couch with his arms, one hand leaving behind a sticky residue on the cushion. Then Sam grabbed his brother's hand and pulled til Dean slid down to the ground as well, eyes big again.

"Don't worry, Dean. It's safe. We'll all be together." Dean didn't look impressed, but he let Sam pull him toward the door all the same.

They settled around the car and John pulls his tiny makeshift hibachi and a small bag of charcoal out of the corner of the trunk. He placed a cheap piece of aluminum grating over the foil basket and set it on the trunk This was not exactly the preferred method of making s'mores, but in a motel parking lot while John was nearly dead on his feet it was going to have to do. He started the coals and sat both boys on the fender. "See, Dean? The fire is going to be inside there. Under the grate."

Dean's face went white at the word fire but he kept his gaze steadily on John. He nodded and squeezed Sammy's hand.

"There's good fire too, Dean. You'll see." John handed him an untainted marshmallow out of the bag before he turned back to the coals.

Soon they were hot enough for John to skewer three marshmallows and hold them just over--but not touching--the grate. He handed another marshmallow to Dean and smiled. "Watch out for Sammy, now," he said, and when Dean wasn't looking he lifted the grate away so he could hold the marshmallows closer to the smoldering coals.

Soon the three marshmallows were ready and John broke the first Hershey bar and a graham cracker into sections. Dean watched what he was doing. For once when Dean's eyes went big John didn't see fear there anymore.

Later, with both boys covered in a sticky gelatin mess he'd feel the tension he's been carrying leave him in a rush and the prospect of sleep wouldn't be quite so miserable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally a verse written out of order, this was commentfic on LiveJournal and the prompt was "smores."


	4. Four Times Dean Held the Power and One Time He Shared It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean has powers. Sam is curious.

1\. John watched the boys as they made the rounds at Jim’s place. Sammy scooted around on the floor and Dean stood over him, proud as anything, passing him toys one after the other without Sam so much as uttering a sound. Sam scooted up to the coffee table in Jim’s small living room and Dean grinned, all white teeth and sudden excitement. “Watch this, Dad. Go, Sammy, go!” And Sam put two chubby hands on the tabletop and pushed up into a stand. Then he let go and tottered his first three steps to Dean before tumbling over, laughing.

2\. “I hate school!” Sammy crowed, stomping his little feet and then kicking off his shoes for the third time that morning. Dean sighed, picking them back up and shaking his head. 

“No, _I_ hate school, but I still go. That’s what people do, Sammy.

“I don’t want to be like people! I hate it! I hate it so much, Dean!”

“Why?” 

“It’s so _loud_ there. What’s wrong with all of them?”

Dean laughed. “Well, not everyone is like us. Sammy. You’ll get used to it. I did. Now come on, let’s get your shoes on. Please?”

3\. “Dean,” Sammy asked him one day in the middle of Kindergarten, “If you always knowed what I knowed, how come I don’t knowed the same for you?”

Dean blinked. “You do fine, Sammy. You give me what I want all the time.”

“De-ean,” Sammy whined, “That’s not what I’m asking you!”

“Well, Sammy, some things are for big brothers to do. This is one of those things. It’s my job to take care of you, that’s all. I’m just good at it.”

“Oh. What if I want to do what you do?”

“Sorry, kiddo, but it’s big brothers only.”

4\. _“Dean!”_ Sam screamed for all he was worth, a lost and broken sound. “Where are you?”

Dean bolted out of bed and crossed to him and shook him hard. “C’mon, Sammy, wake up.”

Sam breathed hard, but otherwise didn’t respond.

_Not again._

“C’mon, Sammy, I got you,” he said, curling up next to Sam and closing his eyes. The tight darkness that always enveloped Sam when he dreamed this way started to seep away from him and into Dean, who welcomed it, taking it in and turning it from dark to light.

Sam woke; Dean breathed.

 

5\. “That’s crap, Dean. If you can do it, then you can explain it to me. Give me a chance to learn it.”

“Sammy, I just don’t think--”

“Stop playing the martyr.”

“The what?”

“Martyr. Like the saints.”

“Oh. Look, Sam, I don’t know if you’d want--”

“I _do_ want to try. I have the dreams already. I’m strong enough to do anything you can do.”

Dean rolled his eyes.

Sam made a face and Dean relented.

“Fine. I’ll think something and you try to guess it.” He pushed a thought outward toward Sam.

And Sam caught it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble challenge from LJ.


	5. Percussion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean has pneumonia. John ~~remembers~~ knows how to be a father.

Dean couldn't breathe. He really couldn't breathe.

He turned over on his side, away from the pain on his right. Everything in his head felt like it was surrounded in crud. There was almost an audible slosh when he moved, but mostly he just felt dizzy as hell. The cough rolled thick and harsh out of him, and he looked for Sam. _Wake up, Sammy. Need you. Please._

Sam turned over in bed. _Yeah?_ They didn't need words, not anymore. Today Dean was nothing but grateful for that. He wasn't even sure he could talk right now. An inaudible question formed in Sam's mind, and Dean almost caught it before it changed. He didn't have to ask. Sam had been getting quicker on the uptake, too. _You can't-- Oh, God. Dean._ He was out of bed in a flash, crossing to his brother. _Sit up_. His arms went around Dean, laying a soft staccato of percussion against Dean's back. 

Dean felt another slosh, this one in his lungs. His stomach lurched. So much mucus, he was about to puke with the dizziness, the wrongness of all the fluid moving through him. 

_Go slow._ Sam scrambled down and dashed away again, produces the trash can from the bathroom. Dean heaved, again and again and again, dry and aching at first, but finally something came up. Green and yellow crud.

 _This is bad_ , Dean thought, as Sam went back to percussion. More of the crud shook loose.

_Just go slow. Breathe. I got you._

_How'd you learn to do this, Sammy?_

_I didn't?_ he offered. _Just. It's what you needed._

Dean knew he had the best little brother in the world. Because he believed Sam.

He was about to try croaking something out through his ruined throat when he felt a change in the air, footfalls outside their door. Dad.

Dad rushed into the room, dumped a plastic bag that rattled with the promise of pills on the table in the corner. He took in Sam, alternating percussion and rubbing in circles over Dean's back. "Good thinking, Sammy. Nice work."

Dean felt the smile on Sam's face without seeing it; felt it inside. He weathered another slosh. His head ached, his lungs ached, his stomach was roiling.

But he wasn't scared. Not anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Commentfic, in which it could almost always be assumed I was writing "ODAD Dean."


	6. In the Quiet of the Woods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John watches his boys train and considers what he sees.

John sat on the front steps of the cabin and watched his two sons as they sparred in the clearing. Out here in the woods, far off the grid, he breathed easier. This place was theirs outright. It had been Mary's father's, and then Mary's, and now it belonged to him and the boys. Sometimes he wondered about Samuel, whether he turned in his grave every time he took the boys out here, armed them and let them loose. 

Most of the time, he reminded himself it was not a productive train of thought. So he forced his chest to loosen and focused his gaze on Dean--arms coming up around Sam's throat. The older boy locked Sam into a perfect hold and suddenly Sam froze. John watched the ripple of fear make its way from one son to the other, lightning fast but sharp enough to show on Dean's face. _Fuck_. 

"Take him down!" John ordered.

Dean moved then, sending Sam down in one smooth motion that proved him perfectly able to execute the drill. Still, he loosened his hold and let the smaller boy back up almost too soon.

So. This again. Dean never really let himself fight hard enough against Sam. John sighed and stood up. "He can take it, Dean," he reminded for the third time that afternoon, and he saw Sam's face fall.

"Sorry, sir," Sam said. "I was--"

"I'm not gonna hurt Sammy," Dean said. "He was down, sir."

John smiled grimly. He had tried to make the best of Dean's obsessive protectiveness for his younger brother, a side effect of the fire that John only rarely needed to reinforce. In the middle of a drill, though, it only ever served to get in the way.

"He was," he conceded. "But Sammy has to learn just the same as you--"

Dean huffed and nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Do I let you up ahead of time?"

"No, sir."

"Because?"

"Because it wouldn't go that way if it was real."

"Not for a second, Dean."

"Yes, sir."

"So. Go again. Sam, keep it under wraps."

"Yes, sir," Sam muttered at the ground.

John sat back down and watched his sons square off in the quiet of the forest. The scuffle was short--Sam was good, but Dean still had experience on his side. Dean's arms went around Sam's middle, pinning his arms at his sides perfectly before sending him down. This time, Sam's full weight hit the forest floor. Relief flooded through John, tasting bitter all the way down.

*~*~*

The next day, John called, "Drills," with a tired reluctance in his voice. The sun was still high in the sky so the boys would be relatively comfortable running sprints from one edge of the field to the other. Still, today everything he was asking them to do weighed heavier on him than it did when the trip had begun. He watched the two of them dash out into the yard without having to be asked a second time and he wondered.

He had been trying. He'd maintained the cabin grounds the best he couldeven though keeping to any sort of home base was a definite risk. He told himself it was calculated, that the boys were worth that much, that at best they had come here twice since--Mary--and that so far the biggest threat had been the small group of ducks that was always here at the right time of year, demanding and pleased with themselves.

He hated the way it never took more than two days before he itched with the need to be moving on. The truth was it didn't matter where 'here' was. They could be anywhere and John Winchester would be a mass of nerves and doubts without the roll of the highway under him. So if he chose this same place twice, if he had taken a risk, at least it was calculated. At least it was one that he took for the boys. They knew this was their grandfather's place, proof that they had had a family. They knew there was water out back to get wet in, that they could sit in the edge of the dock and swing their feet in it, tossing bits of bread to the ducks. John made a point to hunt up the day-old ninety-nine cent bread whenever they were here, just in case, as if they were that kind of family.

But they weren't. At most this was a place to hunker down, to have some room and quiet for training.

Right on their family property. His deceased, brutally murdered, in-laws' property. He sucked in his lip and reminded himself that they would have wanted Dean and Sam to use the place.

0500 stretches and laps had long been done, but the relative cool of the morning couldn't be wasted. It was 0800 as John called for drills and watched them go, not needing to be told twice John thought of the snafu yesterday and wondered if the boys--if Dean--was trying to prove a point.

Out in the yard, Dean tapped Sam's arm and said one word that John didn't catch. Sam nodded and moved into an offensive position. He threw punches and Dean ducked and rolled away. John watched with pride for a moment as Dean performed his defensive moves excellently. 

But there was something else. There was--

The boys were so _quiet_ , he realized suddenly. There was no banter, no teasing. Dean had never needed to say much since Mary's death, least of all around Sam, but watching them now it seemed as if both boys were so focused.

Was this what he had wanted?

No. Of course not. He had wanted Sam and Dean tossing a football in the back yard, Little League games or maybe soccer like Sam had tried last year. But life wasn't about what any of them wanted.

He watched his two sons moving silent and sure, Dean spinning and ducking and diving at all the right moments and John realized: none of them had to say a word. A fissure of anger worked its way through him. The scenery was never going to matter. John wasn't a father, not any more than those two boys could be his sons. Not in the way other families could be families. They had lost Mary and Dean had lost--so much--and now all John had to offer were the drills.

What could even be said about any of that?

*~*~*

The next morning, even before morning laps, the boys looked miserable. Sam was pale and looking too thin and Dean's eyes were full of worry. Sam didn't look sick, just tired, but it was the image of both boys so miserable that almost had John calling off the laps, telling them to just get in the car, they needed to get a move on anyway.

But Sam said, "I'll feel better when I get outside," and Dean nodded as if he was thinking exactly the same thing, and then they bolted.

John watched. He stood on the porch, embracing the peaceful cool of 0500 in the woods, and this time the quiet between his boys seemed right, perfectly in place in the morning air. John watched them, switching off between offense and defense with fluid ease. One down, up, switch. One down, up, switch. Sometimes Dean laughed and said, "You forget, Sammy?" but Sam never had to say anything. John put that out of his mind as he focused on his boys' footwork, their timing.

He shivered, his mind caught between _impossible_ and _beautiful_. Somewhere a while back, John had passed _terrifying_ , but he tamped that down, hard. He couldn't afford to be afraid of this, of his two sons moving like they were unstoppable in a world where almost anything could be trying to stop them all forever.

John moved from standing on the porch to sitting on the top step and he let his two boys go until Dean missed a step and faltered and Sam started laughing. "Down with a bang, Winchester!"

"Shut up, Sammy, I--"

"And you're done!" John bellowed. "Forty-five minutes, we meet back here and load up the car."

It was long time past when John had started itching for the road.

Neither of the boys objected. They dove into the water out back just long enough to cool their skin and then dashed inside the cabin for their duffles, in and out at a speed that managed to raise John's eyebrows.

The Winchesters were across the state line the next night, lined up at a motel check-in desk when the woman in the floral print dress turned to her coworker and said, "Such a shame. It's such a nice campsite. Was--was such a nice campsite. All those families out their property.... Fire seemed downright unnatural. There's no replacin' somethin' like that."

Beside him, John felt Dean shift uncomfortably while Sam stepped behind his brother completely and all John knew was that he had to pay for his room and get out of there.

John added Sam Campbell's cabin to the list of things the Winchesters never had to talk about, and he found a hunt in Wyoming, and the Impala took them there, and they were fine.


	7. Someone Comes Calling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's more than just Sammy involved in this now....

It starts with a dream of yellow eyes. And a voice.

It hurts. It’s like being torn open and filled with cold and death. And the words.

He must have cried, because the first thing he knows when the words stop is that Dean’s hands are on him. Warm and Dean’s and one is shaking his shoulder a little while the other is up on his cheek, wiping at the tears Dean knows about before Sam does, and Sam knows he’s doing it without thinking.

He wouldn’t have told Dean if he hadn’t cried, if he’d been able to hold it in, but it hurt.

He didn’t know you could hurt in your dreams until then.

Again the next night. Yellow eyes, the voice, and the sound changes as it goes on, and on, and on. Sounds like Dad. Dean. Dad. Dean. DadDean. DeanDad. Sounds like hate.

_Worthless. You’re worthless. You know that? Know it. Know—_

That’s when the pain hits him and when it does he realizes he didn’t know it wasn’t there before because he couldn’t think.

_Worthless. Piece of shit. You killed your mother. Killed her. She tried to save you, she was only saving you, and you let her burn. Why didn’t you stop me? Why didn’t you try?_

Dean, shaking him so hard this time, and he’s glad that Dad is gone, for once he’s glad, because he’s screaming _Mom!_

And he has to tell Dean, because that thing—

There is no because, it’s just out of his mouth in a sob like a scream. He knows Dean’s supposed to say, “Don’t talk about her,” but this time when he does, breaks the rule, that’s not how it goes.

_Dean, Mom… Did I kill Mom? Did I do something? Dean?_

And Dean is just deadly quiet, doesn’t even blink, and Sam feels sick.

“It was a fire, Sammy. It was a fire, it just happened.”

_It was in my room, Dean._

“It was also in Kansas, Sammy. I was there too, I lived there, you don’t see me sayin’ I lit the fuckin’ thing.” But Dean’s babbling, rapid-fire. Why is Dean babbling?

Sam gives that little chinjerk nod that says—fine, I get it, I hear you, we’re done. The one he got from Dad, that he uses when he’s scared to talk anymore because things might get worse. He feels himself do it, trying to shut down. He doesn’t have to talk to lose it, though. His eyes spill over because this—this is wrong, and he’s scared like he hasn’t been in years.

That’s when Dean takes his arm, in this totally weird way that hurts, and who is this and what did he do with Sam’s brother?

After that Dean won’t leave him, even when Sam’s so tired he even thinks sleep will be okay again. Maybe Dean doesn’t.

Sam fake-sleeps all night and Dean just sits there on the end of Sam’s bed until Sam can’t take it anymore, the sun’s coming up and Dean needs to get up from sitting there—now—so Sam pulls himself out of bed.

They don’t talk about it, but that’s fine. They don’t have to, Sam never wants to.

It happens again. Of course. Sam knows it will, but that doesn’t mean it changes. The eyes, the words, the pain that by now is chronic. Sam doesn’t even know if it’s going to go away when he wakes up, this time.

This time when Dean’s there he’s holding on to Sam for dear life, like this thing is going to blow them both apart if he even moves, and this. Is not. Sam’s brother.

“It’s lying, Sam,” Dean says, and Sam doesn’t even remember telling Dean there’s an it, that it talks.

Sam’s fear and tears just dry up together in a second, leave him cold, and that’s when he knows.

_You see him too._


	8. Cards on the Table

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean test their powers and may be giving their father some...anxiety. Yeah, that's it.

The sun beat down on them in a room with two beds and bizarro-world end table lamps in zebra-print. Only a Winchester could be stuck in the ugliest motel room in Orlando, Florida with orders to "stay inside the room, open the door to no one, and check the guns and salt lines nightly." Dean paced moodily up and down the room, no doubt thinking of the possibilities offered by the car that wasn't there, the car Dad should have been trusting Dean with (he was old enough, damn it), but decidedly wasn't. The Impala was home, always had been, and it was gone, even though Dad had the truck, stationed at Uncle Bobby's. He said Bobby was working on installing a weapons rack in the trunk but Dean at least didn't believe that for one second. 

This was day one of what was going to be a long, long two weeks.

They watched the channels intended for the tourists, but there was only so much two young boys could take. Dean pulled out a deck of cards on the second day but Sam just narrows his eyes at him.  
"I am so not playing cards with you!"

"Why not?" Dean asked. Sam watched his brother pull on one of his easy grins. 

"Because. It's totally stupid. You're gonna know-- You _know_ why."

"Yeah, well, I'm awesome. But come on, would I cheat?"

Sam locked him in a stare.

"Okay. Would I cheat at _Uno_?"

Sam didn't answer. "I don't even know why you'd want to _play_ Uno."

"Because I found a deck in the dollar store and I didn't think my brother was going to be a gigantic bitch about it."

"What's the point?"

"Try boredom. Soul-crushing boredom, Sammy."

"You don't even play card--"

Dean's face darkened for a fraction of a second before his grin was back in place. But that was all it took. Sam knew what Dean was thinking, and he didn't even have to be psychic. All he had to do was think it first. _Shit_.

_Dad patted the worn bedspread in a room in Nowhere, Minnesota with a "'C'mere, Sammy, I wanna show you something." Sam hadn't been Sammy in six months but Dad didn't care. Why would he?_

_He held a pack of cards in his hand, almost brand new. It was probably the newest thing they had with them right now. He opened the box and the cards were packed tight inside._

_"We'll start with five-card stud," he said, pulling the cards out and handing them to Sam. "But first a man's got to know how to shuffle."_

_"Poker," Sam said with an edge to his voice._

_"Yeah, poker, Sam. Bread and butter, if you want it to be."_

_"Yeah. Sure. So if you want to teach me about gambling, why aren't we waiting 'til Dean's home?"_

_Dad shifted on the bed and closed his eyes for a second._

_Sam stared at him and waited even though he knew Dad wouldn't say anything, wouldn't give an inch._

_"You think I don't know what this is about?" Sam finally exploded. "I can't even believe you! When are you going to stop thinking Dean's some kind of... freak_ droid _or something? As if he even wants into your he--"_

 _"When are you going to admit that it's not_ natural _?" Dad bellowed. "We can't encourage this, Sam!"_

 _"Right. Because ignoring it because you're_ scared _of it is going to make it go away." Sam pushed away from the bed and sped for the door. Dad grabbed for his arm but Sam spun and he lost his grip. "Don't touch me."_

 _Sam opened the door to find Dean standing there looking nonplussed. "Let me guess," he said dryly, "Sammy doesn't want ramen_ again, Dad _."_

_"Yeah. Whatever," Sam growled._

_"He'll be back," Dad said as Sam pushed past Dean and into the lot. He didn't go far, just out to the Impala to sit on the fender and soon enough Dean was sitting out there with him, quiet and calm like he always was even when he knew full well what the goddamn fights were about. Like Sam needed him to be a comfort when it was Dean that got ripped down all the time._

"Geez, Sammy, c'mon. I already lived it once," Dean called him back to _this_ motel room and this goddamn pack of cards.

"Well get out of my head, then," Sam muttered.

"I will when you stop needing me to go diving in there after you."

Sam blew out a breath. "So, a rigged game of Uno. This really your idea of a good time right now?"

"It's not going to be _rigged_ , Samantha." Dean leveled his 'Don't give me this shit' stare right back at Sam and waited a beat. Sam's eyes flicked down. 

"Sorry."

"We're playing," Dean announced.

*~*~*

"Uno!" Dean called, laying down a red three.

"Ow! Jesus!" Sam willed away the sudden spike of pain at the middle of his forehead, but he couldn't forget the image of a yellow eight that had seemed to push its way into his thoughts from outside. "What the hell is that? You don't call that cheating?"

"You okay?"

"Yeah," Sam said wearily.

"Okay, good. I think that'll get better. It did for me."

"So that _was_ you."

"'Course it was, Sammy, who else is here?"

"Yellow eight."

Dean flipped his card over and brought it to Sam's eye level. "Yahtzee."

"And that's not cheating because...."

"That's _practicing_. Eating your Wheaties. If you're going to have these screwed up dreams, then you got to own them, or they're going to own you. Okay, Sam?"

"I...guess."

"Trust me on this. Besides. No way am I gonna let myself be the only freak in this family."

Sam laughed despite himself and rubbed at his forehead. "Bite me."

"You've been _found out_ , Sammy! Oo-ooh."

"Took you long enough, psychic wonder."

"Takes one to know one, geekboy."

"God, we are so screwed," Sam said, a nervous smile on his lips. "How can this be funny to you?"

Dean clapped Sam on the shoulder, twice. "The hell else is it gonna be? Think we should blow our brains out? Knowledge is power, Sammy. We'll be okay. Hell, we're gonna be the best damn hustlers you can think of. It'll be awesome."

Sam shook his head and smiled. "Yeah, Dean. Okay."

* * *

They were in Nebraska again-- _fucking_ Nebraska, and (surprise!) Dad (still) wasn't there when he said he'd be. He left the truck with them, but not much else, and the last of the provisions were running low. 

People say things happen in threes. Third time's the charm. Fact was, the third time cards were Sam's idea and maybe that was what made Dean smile, say a quick "Hell yeah," to the plan of going down to the bar. Dean was just going to kick some _ass_. Exactly what he was gonna do, the way he grinned that predatory grin and Sam heard an _Awesome!_ without Dean saying anything. 

And they were, awesome was just what they were. They were both brimming with pride as they stumbled home that night, arm in arm and armed with enough cash to go about three steps above Cup o' Noodles that night. Sam was thinking really good thoughts about pizza. Only the Impala--Dad--was there right in front of their motel room door. Their pace slowed to a crawl, and Sam watched as Dean stuffed the money deeper into his pocket.

They were on one side of a furious, "Where have you been?"

"You're two weeks late!" Dean shot back when the question came like clockwork as soon as they crossed the threshold of the room. "We needed money. And we got some," he added, his face bright and smug at once.

"How?" Cold dread filled their father's face. "What did you do?"

"Just what you taught me," Sam said, emphasis on the last word. "Dean's a quick study." His eyes flashed with defiance.

Dad--no, John--rounded on Dean. "I swear, sometimes I think you _want_ to be a freak."

Dean shifted fast as lightning so that he was between John and Sam; between the fist Sam was about to raise and John's face. The boys moved as one, strafing toward the door.

"What the hell are you doing? Don't...." John grabbed Dean's sleeve, but not tightly enough to hold him back.

Dean pulled his arm out of John's grip and sighed. "Come on, Dad, it was just a little poker hustle."

Suddenly John deflated, his eyes tired and his face worn, at a loss as always, these days, as he looked at his two sons, in sync again. Still. "Look, I...."

"Don't apologize. We get it. We know how you feel." Sam's anger burned white hot.

"Sam," Dean said in a warning tone.

"No! I'm sick of it. I'm...just...Jesus Christ, Dean. How can you defend..."

An image flashed in Sam's head, like one of the dreams, like--

Yellow. A rope of yellow power. _Because we don't know, Sammy. We don't know._

Sam sagged against the wall, nodding weakly once. "Fine."

John looked between the two of them in alarm. "Would you stop-- Just stop--"

Their matching tired smiles were the only answer they gave.

This time, when John headed for the door he almost ran, and there was no illusion in the minds of his two boys that he was heading for marshmallows and chocolate.

This time, when John stumbled back in drunk and reeking hours later, it was because of (Dean) them. And Sam couldn't have cared less. There was pizza in their bellies and money in their pockets and that night that was all that mattered.


	9. Terms of Entanglement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John lays down some sort of law for his growing psychic twosome.

THEN

_John watched. He stood on the porch, embracing the peaceful cool of 0500 in the woods, and this time the quiet between his boys seemed right, perfectly in place in the morning air. John watched them, switching off between offense and defense with fluid ease. One down, up, switch. One down, up, switch. Sometimes Dean laughed and said, "You forget, Sammy?" but Sam never had to say anything. John put that out of his mind as he focused on his boys' footwork, their timing._

_He shivered, his mind caught between_ impossible _and_ beautiful _. Somewhere a while back, John had passed_ terrifying _, but he tamped that down, hard. He couldn't afford to be afraid of this, of his two sons moving like they were unstoppable in a world where almost anything could be trying to stop them all forever._

NOW

John sped into the lot of the nearest bar and just sat in the car while the engine ticked down. He had been sure he was over this. Every few days, he was sure, and then the thought would occur to him that a Miller Time shift was a better idea than heading home--or back to the boys. He had almost picked up the phone a dozen times over the last few months to call Missouri, but he hadn’t done that either. Hadn’t wanted to know, just like he didn’t want to know that this thing of Dean’s was getting stronger, not weaker.

When they were younger it was enough to know Dean would do anything to protect Sam, but--

John headed inside the bar and ordered a scotch.

He sat with with his drink, the only patron in a dark bar in the middle of Michigan. He had thought he was done with this--this endless powerlessness as he watched his boys change and grow, more insulated against him than they had ever been before. He remembered early training sessions, the way they moved bringing him peace, dashes of hope. Now all he had was a growing certainty that a trap was being set for him, and for them. The more they aged the more certain he was. They were cursed with this.

If he was one to admit these kinds of things, he might say he was frightened, but men like him never used those words, not even in Nam.

He downed the drink, and then another, and another. Liquid courage pooled in his belly. He would talk to them in the morning.

Morning came late the next day, both boys up and about quiet as anything, long before he woke with a headache to beat the band.

“Alright, boys,” John said gruffly when he’d downed a large coffee from the gas station down the street. “We better talk now.”

The two of them sat on one of the beds and waited for him to speak.

“I’m not gonna pretend I understand what’s between you two,” he said. “And you both know when it started, even if you can’t remember, Sam.”

They nodded in perfect sync with each other.

“But if we’re going to have to deal with it--” They both smiled a little at this, mouths turning upward together. “Then we have to deal with it. No other choice. But you listen close, because I’m not repeating myself and I am not kidding.” 

Two tight little nods from them.

“If I’m here, then we are a family and that means no Jedi mind tricks. I can’t stop you when I’m gone, but if you’ve got something to say you say it out loud when I’m here.” He stared them each down until they both were studying the carpet.

“Yes, sir,” they said.

“And Dean, you get any warnings about anything-- you tell me. Hear me?”

“Yes, sir,” Dean said. “I don’t really.”

John made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “I’m not talkin’ about anything from before. This is from now on. Anything goes weird, you tell me. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

He looked into each of their faces. “I mean anything. We play our cards right, and this could lead us right to the bastard we’re hunting.” Or it could lead him right to us, he thought, and filed that away as quickly as he could.

“You promise me you’re gonna do that much and we’re all okay,” he said. “But you hide anything and I’ll have your hides.”

“Yes, sir,” they said again.

“Dean, think fast.” John reached into his pocket and tossed Dean a key ring. “You’re old enough now, and you love her, maybe more than I do,” he said. “So when we get back to Bobby’s, she’s yours. But if you’re not taking care of her, I take those back. Hear me?”

A burst of pride, of pure unadulterated joy, radiated from Dean to Sam and brought a grin to both of their faces. Dean’s was so big it nearly split his face in two, and John was reminded of simpler times, when he could make that look come and go like any father.

“Good,” he said. “So we’re on the same page. Now tell me we’re in this together, and we’re done.”

“Yes, sir. We are.”

And with that, for the moment, he could breathe again.


	10. In Dreams We Move As One

They hunkered down for one more night in Nebraska, Dad in the next room on his own. Dean tossed and turned for a good two hours while Sam slept. Frustration turned to dread in the pit of his stomach. He could feel low pulses of the power under his skin. He kept an eye trained on Sam but there was nothing from the other side of the bond.

Then all at once Dean felt sleep descend on him unbidden. He was slammed into a dream, all dark and cold and Sam, he had to find Sam. 

“DEAN!” The voice was rough, and it wasn’t his Sam at all but Dean spun in place. He found himself on one side of an iron door. Around him were things he recognized well enough. Salt. Iron rounds. The stairs leading up into the rest of Bobby’s house. (What?) Everything in living technicolor, like it wasn’t a dream at all, vivid like--

The Sam who wasn’t his kept on screaming. “Let me out! Dean! Come on! DEAN!”

On the other side of the door. Fuck. No. Just no.

He pulled himself free of the dreamscape, following the sounds of younger Sam, his Sam, whimpering in his own bed. Dean was up and out of bed before he could think. He crossed the room to Sam, closing his eyes on instinct and he could see the yellow ropes, not unlike his own, but except for a mottled red tinge that was seeping in, covering the gold. They covered every inch of Sam’s body in twists and turns, loops and whorls of power. Dean put his hands on Sam’s wrists--

“Please, Dean, it burns...”

\--and he pulled. The yellow ropes unfurled, and Dean pulled the mess of the power into himself, yanking the power away from Sam and letting the power seep into his own center and then into the ground. The power was endless, mottled gold and beautiful, filling Dean with heat and light and darkness--

“Let me out!”

“Wake up, Sammy, I got you,” Dean said, still holding his brother’s wrists and shaking him now.

The last of the power pulled away from Sam, leaving a dark residue running all through him. Dean pulled at this too, taking it into himself without a second thought until it too turned to golden inside of him and then running it right into the ground.

He pulled Sam out of sleep, watched him shiver a little as he came awake.

“I thought-- Dean, I thought I’d never get out of there.”

“I know.”

“There were chains in there.”

Dean cringed. “I got you. S’just a dream,” he said.

“I don’t think so. It felt like the one of the fire, at the cabin. And that one came true.”

“It’s not gonna come true, Sammy. You’ve got me, remember?”

Sam looked like he was about to say something else, but he just shook his head. Sam pulled his wrists out of Dean’s grip and looked down at them. Dean followed his gaze and saw twin rope marks running around Sam’s wrists. He turned them over, showing Dean how both sides were bruised and purpling. “I don’t think it’s just a dream,” he said.

“Fuck, Sammy. We gotta tell Dad.”

“I don’t want to go to Bobby’s, Dean.”

“Me either,” Dean said and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Me either, Sam.”

When Dean crawled into his brother’s bed, Sam just shoved over without a word, staying quiet as Dean got his arms around his brother’s middle and held on tight.

*~*~*

 

The next morning, the boys found themselves already breaking one of the new rules. Both boys were on edge, exhausted, both trying to figure out how to tell their father about whatever the hell had happened the night before. They sat in the back of the Impala, leaning into one another, their shoulders bumping. It was only when they crossed into South Dakota that Sam broke the silence.

 _You and Bobby put me in_. He sent an image of the three of them walking down the basement stairs, Sam and Dean much older, harder. _Wasn’t you. Was some other Dean. Scared me._

Dean felt sick, felt like he’d been socked in the gut. _That’s right. It wasn’t me. I’d never do that to you, Sammy. I--_

_What?_

_I’d kill myself first_ , Dean sent down the bond, and he knew this was cold, hard fact, as real as his power, as real as anything. From the look on Sam’s face, he knew it too.

 _Don’t you ever say that again_ , Sam said. His expression turned hard, his eyes darkened. _Never again. Need you, Dean. Love you. Everything about you._

_Just as long as you remember it’s the truth. Tell me you will._

_Fine. I will._

_We’re going to get you out of this life_ , Dean promised. _I’m the one who’s the freak. I’ll figure out how to get Dad to hunt with me. He’s already giving me the car. And you’ll always have a line straight home. You know that. You’ll be safe. Normal. You’d be great at studying biology, you know that? I bet you could be a doctor._

Sam burst out laughing at that. _You’re nuts. You’re not the one with the dreams._

_I get enough of those too. Little pieces of them. So I can work my mojo._

_Dean, the fixer-upper_. Sam smiled, and bumped his shoulder against Dean’s again.

_Wonder if I can do that stuff remotely. While you’re in school. Maybe we can try it while we’re at Bobby’s. Put you somewhere and see if I can hoover you. You aren’t gonna live in my motel room your whole life._

But the mention of Bobby’s sobered them up quickly. Sam huffed out a breath and touched Dean’s arm and Dean shifted closer to him on the seat.

They were pulling into the junkyard lot when Dean sent another thought. _We’ll figure it out, Sammy. Promise._

Dean felt Sam squeeze his arm and shrug. _If you insist._

_Maybe I do, Sammy, maybe I do._


	11. Seeking Balance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys are forced to open up to John, and Dean prepares for his first hunt.

As soon as Bobby and their father were busy talking, the boys sped past them and into the house. The two of them barreled down the staircase to Bobby’s basement, barely breathing until they came to a stop and saw exactly what they remembered: endless hunting supplies stacked against a bare stone wall. Sam huffed out a breath in relief and Dean touched his arm. 

“It was this big room, all round inside,” Sam said. “Everything...every nerve was on fire... I was burning up inside... He was, the other me.” Sam murmured, adding the last words in almost a whisper.

“Nothing’s here,” he reminded Sam, like it was final, like he considered the subject closed. Relief flooded the bond from Sam, so fast and thick, mingling with his own. He was overwhelmed with it all, taking a step back, shielding himself from more images of whatever the hell Sam had dreamed up that night.

“What are we gonna tell Dad?” Sam switched gears on a dime, reminding him that this was no time to celebrate. Sam just looked at him, nervousness seeping back into his energy as he absently picked at the sweatshirt that was conveniently covering the marks on his wrists.

“I don’t know. And I don’t wanna do it in front of Bobby, either.”

“Don’t wanna give him any ideas,” Sam agreed.

“You said it was a different Dean. What did you mean?”

“I don’t know. He was just... really different.”

“If you knew anything, you’d tell me, right?”

_No, smartass, keeping secrets from you is my only joy in life. ‘Cause it’s so easy._

Dean smiled a little. “Point taken. Okay. Well, what if we just tell Dad you had a dream about being tied up? Leave it at that. It’s not a lie, right?”

_Not really._

“We’ve got bigger fish to fry anyway. We need practice. _I_ need practice. So run off somewhere, Samantha, get out of my face already.”

“We should go say hi to Bobby first.”  
“Now that we know he isn’t about to hog-tie you, I guess you’re right.”

“We were a lot older,” Sam said soberly. “They were. But...I...”

“C’mon, Sam, let’s at least get out of here.”

“Yeah. Okay. Okay.”

But even though he really didn’t feel like hearing more, he hovered near Sam all the same, keeping in his space until they were up the basement stairs, and back outside to toss twin hellos Bobby’s way. 

“Hey, boys,” came Bobby’s answer with a little wave and a smile.

Dean sidled up to the big black truck. It looked like Bobby had thrown in a few guns and other supplies while he worked on it, just like Dad had said he was doing. He tried to cover the embarrassment he was feeling now that he knew his dad was telling the truth. “Nice work, Bobby,” he said. “It’s a sweet upgrade.”

“Thanks, Dean. So I heard you’re movin’ on up yourself.”

He beamed Bobby a smile and nodded, fishing for the keys to the Impala in the pocket of his jeans. He jingled them a bit in his hand and then tucked them away again.

“You earned ‘em,” Bobby said, “way you are with her.”

Dad cleared his throat and shot Dean a look that said he was ready for business. “Bobby, I got some notes I wanted to show you.”

Bobby nodded and Dean didn’t have to be told twice. He turned on his heel and headed back toward the house, falling into step with Sam.

 _Go find somewhere to be_ , he told Sam, who turned around and went deeper into the salvage yard.

Dean waited for the adults to move inside and went to sit on the porch. _Testing, testing_ , he sent, teasingly. He felt Sam huff out a breath, a little amused but otherwise quiet. Then Dean focused his attention on Sam’s energy, following it down the bond until he saw Sam’s form in front of him, dappled gold and white pulsing in Dean’s mind’s eye. He scanned for any darkness he could find and slowly worked on pulling it all away from Sam.

 _I feel that_ , Sam said. _Tingles_.

_We have lift-off._

_You think I could do some of that stuff myself?_ Sam asked.

_Not while you’re sleepin’._

_No._

_But I don’t see why not. I think it’s just... your aura. Or whatever. That’s what I’ve read. Focus on it and you’ll see it._

_You’ve read books on--_

Yes, _Sam. I’ve had a job to do, takin’ care of you the past thirteen years, and I take it seriously. Moving right along... give it a try already._

There was an audible pause and then Dean got an image of Sam smiling, victorious. He grinned reflexively. _Good job, Sammy._

_See? Nothing bad about teaching me a trick or two._

_Did I ever say there was--okay, nevermind_ , he backpedaled as his brother sent image after image his way, Sam at different ages as he asked endless questions about the bond, life, the universe, and everything in between. Sam huffed out a laugh, coming up to the porch and sitting down beside him. 

The two of them sat quietly, collecting themselves as they considered the next part of their day while he kept half his attention on continuing to pull the darkness away from Sam’s radiant white-gold light.

“I mean it, Dean, you know I can handle that much, right?”

“Mm, yeah, I just... might not be used to it yet,” he said.

Sam rolled his eyes at him, smiling a little. “So... when do we corner Dad and show him my stupid bruises?”

“As soon as we get out of here and are too far away for Dad to drag us back, freaking out…Just to be safe.”

“Sounds like a plan. There really wasn’t anything down there, though.”

“Yeah, that’s true enough but I’m not taking any chances with Dad all the same.”

“He could find out...easily. I mean, hell, he could have kicked our asses for that car ride... He said no telepathy.”

“Yeah, he did. He’s more used to us than anyone, though. He probably didn’t even notice. If he was pissed, we’d know. I’m the one who’d get the beat down--”

Sam shook his head, about to interject, but Dean cut him off.

“--and I’m okay with that. I can handle it, Sam, I really--”

 _It’s only because he doesn’t know about the dreams_ Sam added through the bond.

“Yeah, well, we’ll see how it goes in a day or two when we’re not here.”

Sam nodded, appeased for the moment. The smell of baked beans and franks wafted out from inside the house and Dean stood up. “Last one in is a total girl!” he crowed.

*~*~*

He was half expecting it--he was always expecting it--when the two of them sideswiped him again. They were half a state away from Bobby’s, pulled off the road at a truck stop and the boys piled out of the Impala ready for some grub. He thought dimly that he would remember their waitress and her violently red wig for the rest of his days, and all because it was exactly when she was out of earshot that when Sam said, “Dad, we gotta tell you something.” He pushed the sleeves of his hooded sweatshirt up to the elbows. “I had a dream, a really screwed up dream, and I woke up with these.”

He squinted down at the marks on Sam’s wrists. “When?” he asked, all his fear and anger boiled into the one word.

“Last-night-in-Nebraska,” Sam let out in a rush. 

“When I had just got done telling you two--”

“Dad, look, it was my idea to wait,” Dean said. “We weren’t even sure that it wasn’t something Sam did to himself in his sleep,” and he knew that Dean was lying, this was a carefully planned _ambush_ , is what it was. 

 

He took Sam’s wrist in his hand and looked more closely at the rope marks. “Unbelievable,” he said. “What kind of dream was this?”

“I was tied up. Um…Bobby tied me up. Sir.”

 _Bobby?_ He felt dread running all through him, prickling his skin up with goose-bumps even as he told himself it was a dream and that was all it was. 

“We didn’t think we should tell you while we were there in case....” Dean trailed off.

“Your brother starts dreaming up marks on his skin and you don’t want to tell me because the best hunter I know… what? Scares you? Dean, this is exactly the kind of shit that I’d expect from you. You can’t go five minutes without handling Sam’s life for him.”

“Shut up, _sir_ Sam hissed. “You don’t know what he’s done, how he’s kept me safe. I _always_ dream like this, I have since I was able to dream, and Dean saves me. He always saves me!”

“What are you talking about?”

He caught the look of alarm that Dean flashed Sam, and noted how Sam ignored it, ticking off on his hand as he spoke, “I dreamed the cabin was gonna burn. Once I dreamed of the thing that killed Mom. Sometimes, I can’t even wake up, no matter what I do and I need Dean. One day I might just never wake up ag--”

“You’ve been dreaming of the thing that killed your mother and you haven’t said one word to me?”

“Sorry, sir,” Dean put in, “Sam is my priority. At least when he dreams like that. He’s not kidding that I’ve had to...save him. It’s been scary. And you’re usually not here.”

“Jesus Christ. This starts happening to your brother and you wait _years_ to tell me?” 

“You said things that came before weren’t gonna be judged by the new rules,” Sam pointed out.

Adelaide, their waitress, returned with their food, plunking it down in front of them with a minimum of grace. He bottled up his fury and sat back in his seat.

“One bacon cheeseburger, one plain burger, one soup. Enjoy, folks.” Dean automatically flashed her one of his thousand-watt smiles before turning back to the conversation at hand.

“What exactly do you think we’re doing, Dad?” Dean asked. “While you hunt.”

“I don’t know anymore.”

“Listen, you could always take me… hunting. I’ve got my training and I think I can deal with Sam’s dreams from a distance now. We tried something while we were at Bobby’s and--”

He nodded despite himself. If what he’d seen during their training sessions was an indicator, then it did make sense to take Dean hunting. When the... powers had emerged, he had sworn he’d give the kids as normal of a life as he could manage, that he wouldn’t encourage this one iota, even if it could be a gift on hunts. But if Dean could be trusted as backup.... He could see the sense in it. If....

“Would you promise to stay out of my head?” he asked.

“I don’t have an all-access pass. It’s just Sam and me. I know I’ve told you before.”

“But can I trust you to stick to the hunt when you’ve got Sam on your brain the whole time?”

“We can figure out a better shield or something,” Sam put in. “Be good for both of us. You have no idea how restless Dean gets when he can’t help on a hunt.”

“You do train well,” he admitted, _Very well_ , he allowed to himself, “but how much of that is your...mind trick? The telepathy or whatever it is?”

“Train me on my own, without Sam, and you’ll find out.”

“There’s another chupacabra in New Mexico, I was thinking of heading there next, but I just don’t know....”

“Only one way to find out,” Dean said.

“You’ve got school,” he said. “If we do this....” He could feel his resolve crumbling. _God, Mary, I’m sorry..._ “Don’t you dare think that this means you aren’t graduating.”

Sam outright laughed at this, and John felt fresh anger rising in his chest.

“C’mon, Dad, one hunt,” Dean said.

“One hunt,” he said, with a warning in his voice. If Dean screwed this up, it could be fatal, or worse. But it had been years since he was young and spry and he couldn’t pass up the potential for backup anymore. “But not before you two learn to be out of each other’s pockets. If that means a...shield, then you make that happen. Hear me?”

Both of them nodded together. So it was decided.

He didn’t take Dean to hunt the chupacabra. When that hunt was finished, he met back up with the boys and did two weeks solid of training with Dean on his own. A part of him wished he was able to find fault somewhere in Dean’s technique, but the rest of him knew full well how unlikely that would be.

Dean was a Winchester, through and through, the type of kid who’d do great in the Marines himself, falling into line at John’s instructions and orders as if he’d been doing it his whole life. Deep in his chest, John felt the ache of regret as he watched Dean sink so easily into his role. Whether it was regret at time lost or at what was about to come for his oldest son, he wasn’t quite sure.

He had never been much for dwelling on his feelings.

Dean had obviously been keeping up a regimen of training on his own accord while he was gone on any number of hunts. He ran a six minute mile and could field strip a rifle nearly as quickly as John could. What he lacked in direct hunting experience, he had made up for with what must have been years of practice.

“So do I get to go with you?” Dean asked when he saw his father rifling through a fresh set of papers on the lookout for signs of a hunt.

And there was no way for John to say no. Not after what he’d seen.

“This is why your grades--” he started, and Dean shook his head. 

“My grades suck because school sucks. I’ve been in two schools already this year, sir.”

“I try not to move you both around too much... I know other hunters’ kids have it worse.”

“Really? I’ve never met any....”

“Joanna Beth is one.”

“Oh. Right. But she doesn’t move around....”

“Tamara and Isaac have a little girl. They’re in and out of towns like the breeze.”

“Well, okay, Dad, fine, but next time you’re gearing up for the third move in a year....” Dean shrugged. “It makes things... It makes school kind of crazy. And we want Sammy to graduate, right?”

“Sammy’s a genius, he can handle it--”

“Thanks for that,” Dean said. There were hints of sibling rivalry plain on Dean’s face for the first time he could remember.

“I just meant--”

“Look, just let me know when you’ve got something I can help you with, already.”

What else was he going to do? Putting off hunting indefinitely was out of the question. So he kept looking.

*~*~*

Dean felt it in the air. Dad was so close to letting him hunt. He was a bundle of energy despite hours of solo training, in a field in the middle of Wisconsin. “Okay, Sammy, this is it,” he started in as soon as they had a (very plaid) room that night. “You and I need to shield up, because I’ve got hunting to do.”

“If it means you stop pacing and growling things at me all the time when he’s out on a hunt, then I am all for this. I’m following your lead. Let’s do this.”

He nodded, sitting down heavily on his bed. Suddenly this was real. For the first time he was going to consciously block the flow of the power between them. This was something he’d only ever done instinctively before, like blocking the full force of Sam’s dreams.

A tiny voice in the back of his head said, _No, don’t, not worth it._ And an even smaller voice said _scared_. But he tucked all of that away. He _needed_ to do this, needed this for their collective sanity. “Give me something loud and annoying,” he said, when all the fear and worry were effectively tamped down. He figured the more annoying Sam could get, the faster he would be able to build an effective shield.

Sam cracked a wicked smile and suddenly all Dean could sense was his brother’s sing-song voice in his head. _This is the song that never ends, it just goes on and on, my friend_ blasted its way into his thoughts.

He visualized a brick wall going up all around him. _I want peace and quiet_ , he thought, and watched the bricks go up in neat rows until he visualized his entire aura encased in them. 

_Some people started singing it, not knowing what--_

The song had receded in volume, but hadn’t disappeared completely. He started on another level of bricks. _Block Sam, except in case of emergency_ he thought. _This is not an emergency._

_\--it was, and they’ll continue singing it for--_

Abruptly, the music stopped. He had built the second brick enclosure at a faster rate, and was already encased twice over. He watched Sam, waiting for any kind of reaction. Sure enough, a look of surprise crossed his brother’s face. 

“That was quick,” Sam said, “Sure you haven’t been practicing that?”

He shrugged. “Read about shields, too,” he said. “Feels weird.”

“Yeah. It does,” Sam agreed. 

“We won’t have to use it all the time,” he promised.

“Yeah, that’s good. It’s kind of.... Like almost...almost being blocked off. But you’re still there, in the back of my head. I can still tell--” He shrugged and shook his head. “That you’re okay. And whatever.”

“Same here,” he said. “Okay, one more time.”

_John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt, His name is my name too._

“Seriously? Are you five? Where do you get this stuff?”

“The one time I got to go to Scout camp? I thought you wanted me to be normal, Dean,” Sam teased, ratcheting up the volume. _His name is my name_ too-oo _Whenever we go out--_

“Normal is annoying.” But it definitely got Dean building his shield faster, that was for sure.

“I’m watching out for you, too, you know,” Sam put in, “This is gonna be good for us.”

“Okay, Hallmark boy, the music stopped. Was that me or you?”

“Oops. Me.”

“I never thought I’d have to say this, but start being annoying again. C’mon, this is serious.”

_I know that._

“And after me, you’ve got to practice. No way am I the only one who needs this.”

“Know that too. Okay, time for another rousing chorus....”

 _His name is my name too. Whenever we go out, the people always shout, there goes_ John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt!

“That...is...the most...annoying...” 

_Da da da da--_ And it ended. “Jesus. Thank God.”

“You’re welcome. Nice speed that time.”

“Whatever, bean-pole, it’s your turn now.”

He watched Sam carefully while he started to sing in his own head, pushing the lyrics outward.

_New blood joins this earth, And quickly he's subdued, Through constant pained disgrace,  
The young boy learns their rules._

Sam scrunched up his face in distaste. “I hate that damn--song. Okay, it’s gone.”

“I know you do. Why?”

“Because, have you even listened to it?” Sam asked.

“If I hadn’t, you think I could sing it?” 

Sam looked like he was about to say something else, but he just deflated.

Dean shrugged. “It’s me and Dad,” he said. “Might as well be honest about it.”

Sam sighed. “Okay, fine. Go again.”

They spent the night trading songs until they both had headaches. “I hope you don’t dream tonight,” Dean said, “I’m about tapped out right now.”

“All in a good day’s work, right?” Sam said.

In the morning, Dean presented himself to their father, grinning. “We figured it out, Dad. Here. Ask me what Sammy’s thinking.”

Dad put down his styrofoam cup of coffee and asked, “Okay... What’s Sammy thinking?”

“Nothing. Just kidding. I don’t know.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve read a lot of books on this stuff, they told us how to do it. Plus, he was being really annoying last night. I’m ready for a break.”

Dad considered this for a long moment. “Prove it to me,” he said. “No telepathy today. Period.”

“Yes, sir,” they said together. 

Dad studied them for a beat and then nodded. “And no more dreams?”

“No more dreams.”

“If this is really true,” Dad said, “then you did good work, Dean,” he allowed. “But I’ll have to be the judge of it. You have to be willing to go by normal means in this world, not just this...whatever this is. You understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Dean said.

“Good. And I’ll keep up my end of the bargain. I’ll find us a hunt.”

“Thank you, sir.” And with that they were off, leaving Wisconsin behind in a haze of exhaust and caffeine fumes.

*~*~*

He waited for what looked like a good old-fashioned salt and burn, with some pretty obvious leads. On a Friday night after another round of report cards, he gave Dean the thumbs up and watched his boy immediately go out and run along the tree-line outside. He came back sweating and grinning exactly twenty-four minutes later and John felt himself cracking a smile. They left with both cars at 0400 with a promise to Sam to be back by Monday morning.

The case was pretty cut and dry. A jealous dead husband, Martin Shaughnessy, was plaguing his wife Margaret and she was scared out of her wits. She offered up where the man was buried with fear and pain mingling in her eyes, on the verge of tears.

“I just don’t understand,” she said in a broken voice, “I loved him so much... I thought he would want me to be happy,” and Dean picked up the slack in an instant.

“I understand that, ma’am,” Dean said in a soft voice, “Things like this, they don’t always add up in a way that makes sense to us,” he said gently. “Spirit logic isn’t human logic, not by a long shot.” He flashed his smile at her and got a watery one in return. With that, they headed to the cemetery with two shovels and an easy game plan.

They found the gravestone easily enough, right on the east edge of the cemetery and they dug together for the first hour, until they must have gotten close to the coffin. When the wind picked up, Dean climbed out of the hole and pulled his shotgun, standing as backup, while he was left with the backbreaking work at the bottom of the hole. He heard two shots ring out almost one on top of the other and his shovel hit the coffin at last. He pulled in all his reserves and smashed the lid of the coffin with all his strength. He dropped his shovel, hearing more salt-packed bullets flying overhead.

 

He pulled the stopper out of the gas can and soaked what he could of the coffin before he threw the match inside, pulling himself up over the lip of the hole, drawing his own gun as soon as he had a foothold on solid earth again. The wind whipped around their faces and Dean just kept firing, strafing from side to side above the hole. 

John stood at his son’s back, bellowing above the noise of the wind, but Dean barely needed his instructions. He moved like a man on fire for his cause and John felt pride swelling in his chest as the final shot rang out and the fire died


	12. Finders Keepers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is left alone for the weekend, but he isn't alone for long.

It was Saturday night. The day before, Dad and Dean had packed their things, leaving right after school to go on a hunt for a probable werewolf, and Sam was left in the apartment alone. He’d grabbed some movies from the local library (Thank God this dumpy little town had a local library). He had sweet-talked Rita-at-the-circulation-desk so that she let him take two films from the adult section. He had just made himself a box of macaroni and cheese, and was settling in for a viewing of _It Came From Beneath the Sea_. “It” was a giant octopus, not too terribly different in behavior from what Dad called a wraith, if what Sam had read in his journal was true.

He couldn’t really concentrate on the movie. He’d never been as into horror movies as Dean was, but Sam was pretty sure this was something else. He was jumpy and wired as hell. He put down the bowl of half-eaten mac and cheese. The overhead light flickered, fast enough that he wasn’t sure that it had happened, but the brief buzzing sound was like nails on a chalkboard to him, starting up a pain in the middle of his forehead and sending him shivering. _Shit._ He needed to call Dean.

But he didn’t make it as far as the phone. Before he moved an inch, his vision whited out completely and he fell to the floor. _Help_ , he heard first, in a voice he knew, a voice he had hoped never to hear again. Then a second voice, dark and angry, overrode the first.

 _Strong? Try weak. Try desperate._ Pathetic.

Those words, in that voice, laid him bare. Sam shivered in his place on the apartment floor, fighting with all he had to just--stay--right--here. But in the next instant, the pain in his head doubled and then receded as quickly as it had come and the the round room became his reality. The cement floor was cold under him, the fan whirred and squeaked overhead, and the huge iron door was tightly shut, leaving him and not-him trapped inside.

The first time he was here, he’d thought of it as large. Now he knew better. He scrunched up tighter against the wall in an effort to not be sensed, or worse, seen. He could feel every bit of grit on the cold floor under him but he said it to himself anyway: _Just a dream, just a dream, please God let me get home after this._

The man who wasn’t him loomed in the doorway, his attention still riveted on what Sam knew had to be his Dean. “Killing her is what matters. Or are you so busy being self-righteous you forgot about her?” he asked. There was anger in every line of his body, but under it all Sam heard an eerie pulse that blocked out other noise, and the white light kept flickering at the edges of his vision. _Help. Help, please._

He heard only snatches of their words after that, thankful for the pulse that was setting his teeth on edge but blocking out the voice of not-his-Dean almost entirely. _Thank you_ , he sent up to the ceiling, and he waited.

The slot in the door was closed tight. Sam felt the latch sliding home like it was a punch in the gut. The huge man screamed again and again, rage clear in his voice. “Let me out! Let me out of here! Dean! Dean!” The white light flared anew. Sam watched as the older man turned from the door, and for an instant Sam saw only red, before he realized that not-him was looking at him, watching him with emotions vying for territory on his face. Not-him knelt down, blinking.

“How did _you_ get here?” not-him asked, and all Sam could do to answer was to try pressing himself harder against the wall.

Sam suddenly remembered a trick Dean had taught him, cursing himself for not remembering it sooner. He brought his arm up and made a motion as if to check his watch. The hands on his “watch” were on backwards, with the arrows pointing into the middle of the dial. _I’m_ dreaming, _damn you_ , Sam thought triumphantly and he willed himself to be home, to feel the carpet under his skin again.

And it worked. Suddenly Sam was back exactly where he wanted to be. _Victory_ , he thought, and started to crawl toward the phone, moving slowly so as not to jostle his aching head too much. But the white light filled his vision again and his world was only pain, until he found himself back on the concrete floor.

“I _said_ , what--are you--doing here?”

*~*~*

On edge didn’t even begin to describe how Dean was feeling. He was doing target practice when something flickered at the back of his head, golden light stutter-stopping, and all three of Dean’s shots went wide. _Dad. Get to Dad. Tell him._

He holstered his gun and ran for the motel room where Dad was checking the supply of silver bullets.

“Dad, we’ve gotta go,” Dean said what seemed like a lifetime later. “It’s Sam.”

“Don’t you have your shiel--”

“Dad, I’m serious, we have to go _now_. It’s _Sam_. He’s flickering. Something has him.”

Dad blinked once, then cursed, and started slamming things back into bags. And they were off, flooring it to cover the three hundred miles between them and Sam.

*~*~*

“Why don’t you ask yourself? You brought me here,” Sam said to the huge man. “You called for help. What _are_ you?” Sam asked. “Why won’t you leave me alone?”

The big man started to pace the room. “Me, leave you alone? Let me think of why. You’re living in Minnesota... You’re thirteen... Dean sleeps in the bed by the door with a knife under his pillow. He just convinced Dad to lay off on the moving around so you can see the inside of a minimum number of high schools, by the way.” His expression was fierce, his eyes darkened with anger, like he was trying to prove something. “And you got that shirt at Goodwill on a Saturday. Dean spent the money you guys saved on ice cream cones. Mint chocolate chip, right? Life’s a beach.” He watched Sam, smug.

“How... How did you do that?”

“I’ll give you three guesses. The first two don’t count.”

*~*~*

Dean had never seen his dad drive so fast in all of his life. Once they had packed everything up, something came loose in Dean’s head, sending him babbling and desperate. “He almost flickered _out_. I can feel him in the back of my head now, just an indicator light, like for the engine, you know... only he almost _disappeared_.”

He didn’t have to tell Dad to drive faster after that. In that moment, he thought it was possible for his dad to break the sound barrier.

He tried to tell himself everything would be all right. But he didn’t know, couldn’t know. He focused on the road, on following his father’s truck with the Impala, and he let the miles speed by under him and told himself he could make this all right.

*~*~*

Sam looked into the man’s fierce eyes and waited.

“I’m you, smarty-pants,” the man all but growled. “Look where we end up. He hates us. Hates me.”

“Dean could never hate you,” Sam said, soft and certain.

The man huffed out a laugh, rough and broken and wrong. Sam suppressed a shiver. 

“You’d be surprised.”

“Listen, I know Dean. He talks a good game, but you know.... You’ve gotta know....”

“A lot has changed.”

Sam blinked, suddenly putting two and two together. “You’ve lost it.”

“What?”

Sam stood up. “The bond. How did you lose the bond?”

“I don’t know what you’re--”

“I bet you do. I bet you’ve always known when he was hurt badly enough. I bet--oh wow, you went to college. I bet that’s why you could. You knew he’d always be there, and if he wasn’t going to be....”

Something flickered in the big man’s eyes and was gone in an instant. “Maybe. That was a lifetime ago.”

Sam nodded. That much, he could believe. There was something wrong, something deeply wrong with everything around him. “What happened to you two?”

The big man barked out a laugh. “Let’s just say we were never going to be normal. You wait and see. Life never turns out like you think it will. Especially--”

“--not for a Winchester.” Sam and the man finished together. Sam felt laughter building up in his chest, rough and poisonous in the air between them. “I know that much. Learned it a long time ago.”

“You think you have. You’ll learn it again,” the man said. “Trust me, you’ll learn it again.”

Sam was about to speak when the big man suddenly stilled. Panic was clear on his face. He looked around the room quickly and then started shouting. “Guys! Get down here! Something’s coming! Go!” This last he offered to Sam, his voice in ruins.

He felt lighter, as if the not-him had been anchoring him in place somehow. Sam looked down at his dream-watch. The hands were melting together. _I’m dreaming._ And then he was back in his own world, carpet-burned and with an aching head that reminded him of having a concussion, but actually felt worse.

*~*~*

It was when Dad almost swerved off the road that they decided driving ninety on the roads at o-dark-thirty was probably a bad idea if they wanted to stay alive. He set his cell phone alarm for an hour, willing himself not to panic, and watched Dad conk out. For his part, Dean ripped down his shields and started to send one questing thought again and again. _Sam. Sam. Sam. Sam. Answer me, dammit. Sam._

*~*~*

Sam took himself and his aching head right to bed after that. Not that sleep was a refuge from the man who wasn’t him. He was ruined for just about anything else though. The two horror movies were left untouched and the leftovers had barely made their way into the fridge before Sam collapsed into bed, exhausted and in pain.

Something blasted past his shield, breaking it apart all at once. _SAM_. He took a deep breath and was filled with the beautiful golden glow of his brother’s power.

_Here. Tired. Screwed up. It’s over now._

_What the_ fuck happened?

_Don’t know. Had a... dream. But was awake. Complicated. Would show you but I’m tapped out. Will you get here soon?_

_Yes. Coming. Dad needed rest. Waking him in an hour. We’ll be there in four. Do you need me to come faster?_

_No,_ Sam lied, surprised at himself for managing _that_ at all.

_Because I can keep-- I want to keep driving. It’s not like Dad doesn’t know the way on his own._

__

__

_I don’t know_ , Sam admitted. _Just get here when you can._

 _Shield up, little brother._ Love and relief cradled him as he was completely enveloped in the golden light of _Dean_. 

_More, please, head is falling off._

The golden light filled him to bursting. Concern tinged the words when Dean spoke again. _Plenty more where that came from, kiddo, just stay with me._

 _Trust me, that is_ all _I want right now. Need sleep._

_Rest up._

_Dean?_

_Yeah._

_It was Bobby’s house, again. It was the room._

And that was all Sam needed to say. He felt a burst of anger from his brother and then saw an image of him starting up the Impala.

_Be there soon._

But his brother wasn’t there soon enough. Sam was sleeping like the dead when the white-hot light found him again, pain invading his sleep. He woke just enough to register that he was still alone and then he felt the pull from the round room and he went, gripping his head as the darkness of oblivion overtook him.

When he came awake again, he had no idea how much time had passed. He was in the round room again. All he knew was the pain, the burn along every nerve, the shaking of every muscle in his body. He was--they were--on a cot, but it did nothing to cushion him as he shook, on fire and icy cold both at once, fever mounting, head feeling split in two.

He could barely breathe through the pain, but he remembered his father’s training: in through the nose, out through the mouth, and he started to count breaths.

 _Please. Please don’t, Alistair,_ Sam heard, but when he opened his eyes nothing was there. _God, Dean, come and get me._

Sam had so many questions, but as soon as one occurred to him, the pain blasted it right from his head. There was only the long, slow burn and the pulse in his ears, under his skin. While the pulse of Dean’s power was a soothing liquid balm, the pulse of this man’s power was a wrecking ball, killing and taking and ripping and tearing them both asunder. Soon, Sam had joined the older man in his cries and pleas. _Dean. Please, Dean. God, please._

Under the pain, a rage bubbled forth from not-him. _Abandoned. Left for dead. Damn you. Damn you for leaving me like this. Damn you back to fucking hell for this. Everything I’ve done is for you. Dean. Dean._

Tears pricked Sam’s eyes, running hot down his cheeks. Endless silent tears that rose unbidden and added only another level to the endless burning.

This was hell. There was no other word for it. The man was in hell and had taken Sam with him, had pulled Sam to him to share the burden. And there was no Dean anywhere--not on the other side of Sam’s bond, or anywhere near this other Sam. 

He willed himself to battle back the pain and seek the older, broken Dean with his mind, hoping to crawl along the tatters of this older man’s bond, whatever remained of it. But all that he felt inside of not-him was a cold, bitter wind and emptiness filled with shards of glass like ice that ripped into him as soon as he approached. 

_Jesus. God. Dean. He needs you. We need you. Please._ Please.

A thought came to him unbidden. What if the inside of this Dean was as bad as the inside of this man? He shivered harder at that, crying out in pain, in fear and dread.

His world was only pain and fear and waiting, desperate waiting as the minutes dragged on, endless. The two of them waited, joined and not, together and apart, unaware of time or space or anything but the pain and the jarring absence of the one person they needed most.


	13. Three, Two, One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for some psychic damage control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting the remainder of book 1 tonight.

Late Saturday night was bleeding into early Sunday morning when he finally pulled up to the apartment they’d been renting for six months. He flew through the door, headed right to their room and Sam’s bed. He made it there in record time and found Sam curled up into himself. His face was blotchy and red, tear tracks plain on his cheeks. He was shivering hard in his sleep, and his skin was hot to the touch.

“Shit. Sammy, come on, wake up.”

He reached out and shook Sam, unsurprised when there was no response. He closed his eyes and reached with his consciousness until he saw the pattern of energy around Sam. The usual dappled gold was all but gone, cocooned in tight, choking strands of red and black, pulsing in time with Sam’s heart.

_Fuck._

He started working at untangling the knots, but he couldn’t work fast enough. The strands held fast. For the first time, the darkness covering Sam fought back, the strands of power re-knitting themselves as he worked.

“No, come on, no, no... Come on, Sammy....” Dean quested deeper and deeper, slashing and hacking at the red strands, trying to buy time enough to get the upper hand. In his mind’s eye he pushed underneath the dark strands, cutting from the bottom, pulling them away from Sam’s center. Finally, he seemed to be making some headway.

A low pulse came out of the lingering darkness around his brother, setting his teeth on edge and filling his awareness. He strained to hear anything under it and was rewarded when a small, ruined voice called, _Dean. Please, Dean. We need you._

We? _What the fuck?_

 _I’m here, Sammy_ , he sent down the bond. _You’re only dreaming, okay? It’s a dream. Look at your watch. I’m here. I’m here._ He said it in time with the pulse, sending the message again and again as he worked against the strands of power.

Suddenly Sam came awake, still breathing hard. He looked around, “Dean,” he said. “You’re here.”

“Yeah. Right here, Sammy.” He pushed Sam’s sweaty bangs back from his forehead. “What the hell.... I think I have to stop hunting. You scared the shit out of me.”

“Never mind that. I need you to... to dream with me,” Sam said, “I need you to go next time.”

“Go where? To the room? What _happened_?”

“He’s dying, that’s what.”

“Who?”

“The me in the room.”

“But... how...? What do you mean, that it’s you?” He played doubtful to a T, but he couldn’t help replaying his own memory of the iron door, of hearing someone (his brother) screaming to be let out, the stone cold certainty that this was just another layer of hell on top of countless others. He remembered the weight of it all, something he would never get out from under. Never.

He wasn’t about to share any of that weight with Sam. Not if he could help it. Sammy’s innocence was something worth fighting for, and Dean would fight for every scrap of it that he could.

“He knows things,” Sam said. “He recognized my shirt. He told me everything he could remember about living here. He remembers living here. He knows everything.”

That was an easy enough statement to deflect. “If he knew everything, he’d know that I am about to _kick his ass_ for almost _killing you_.”

“What?”

“You flickered out. I almost lost you. It can’t be you, Sammy, it’s got to be some kind of monster.”

“I don’t know. A lot has changed. They lost the bond.” Sam shivered. 

“Well, good for them. See, that just means it’s obvious they can’t be us.”

“Dean, I’m... Listen to me. I didn’t want to believe it either, but what if it _is_? He’s _dying_ in there. I was dying in there. We have to stop it, we have to do _something_. He needs us.”

“I really don’t know, Sammy.”

“I do. You gotta trust me. Please. I don’t want to die in there.”

“You’re right here,” Dean insisted, knowing he was several rounds into a losing battle.

“But you told me I almost flickered out. What if he grabs me again? He doesn’t have his Dean, man, and they lost the bond and they’re broken. They need... They both need you.”

“You know if I go in there I’m going to want to kill him, right?”

“He’s already doing your job for you, then. Just... please. Go and see him.”

“I don’t know if I can get there. I don’t want you taking me.”

“Me either. But I think you can do it. Just...try. For me, okay?”

“Sam, you don’t know what you’re asking,” he tried again, all the while knowing that Sam could ask anything and he would do his absolute best to comply. Still, the idea of tracking anything into that fucking room left him cold. “He could be anything.”

“He could be, but I really don’t think so. Whatever he is, we have to stop him from grabbing me.”

Dean’s stomach lurched at the concept of this happening _again_. “Yeah. Okay. But...”

“What?”

“I really don’t want to leave you. What happens if it goes south again?”

“You mean if he grabs me again? Well... you’ll just have to convince him not to.”

“Great. Fine. Okay. I can totally convince your evil twin to do anything. This is no problem.” He let his tone go flat.

“You can do it, Dean. You’re what he needs. You’ll see.”

“If anything goes wrong I want you to wake me up, okay?”

“Just take your watch,” Sam said and smiled.

Dean climbed into Sam’s bed. He wasn't taking any chances with Sam not being able to reach him. “I’m serious. This guy, whatever he is, he did some really screwed up shit to your aura. I _really_... I just...”

“I have faith in you,” Sam said, and Dean blinked. Damn if that didn’t just do it.

“Okay. No following me. And shield way the fuck up, now.” Sam nodded and Dean closed his eyes.

He zeroed in on Sam’s energy and found a lone remaining strand of pulsing red and black. He ripped it away from his brother’s aura and sucked it into himself. The energy burned going in and for the first time Dean was filled with a quiet doubt about his usual methods of working with Sam’s energy. _Great. Perfect timing._ He took a deep, grounding breath and followed the strand to its source, deeper and deeper until he heard the sounds of a man who was clearly in pain. He willed himself to follow the sounds until finally he could see Sammy’s round room in his mind’s eye.

Dean took one final breath and he was there.

In the middle of the room was a plain metal bed frame and a threadbare mattress. A man was sitting against the door, looking down at his clasped hands. He shook them out a few times and gasped. Dean watched him studying the palms of his hands with a pained expression and then black lines like the ones in Sammy’s aura erupted across his face and arms, pushing outward as they grew. He dashed to a nearby mirror and that’s when Dean was chilled to the bone.

The man had Sammy’s eyes.

*~*~*

Watching Bobby and, well, _him_ come into the room and tie up the man with Sammy’s eyes was definitely going on Dean’s list of things that could not be unseen. Sammy had said that this Dean was different, and he hadn’t been kidding. Dean looked into his eyes, stared right into the man and all he could see was emptiness. There was no mistaking that this man had lost the bond to his brother, whatever that bond had been in this reality. This older man moved like him, dressed like him, but it was all by rote. Whatever had happened to him, he seemed to be barely holding on to this reality, especially when Bobby had to scream his name twice in the middle of tying Sam down.

Dean had wanted to be spitting mad. He had wanted to be homicidal. But all he could focus on was seeing _Sammy_ in that face, seeing his brother all grown up and in so much pain, Dean could barely handle it. He didn’t doubt for a second that that’s what had stopped his older counterpart cold. There was no way to watch what was happening to Sam and not lose a little bit of himself.

Dean shifted with the shadows and waited. He had no idea what to do. He didn’t know if anyone could see him. He didn’t know if he wanted to be seen or not, either, not until Bobby and his older self left the room. Sam was passed out for a while after that, and Dean had time on his hands to think. He sat with his back against that goddamn door and he waited.

Time stretched on. He wondered what his Sammy was doing while he slept this not-sleep and waited. The man’s pained expression didn’t change for one second while he watched.

Then in an instant this Sam was awake, testing the strength of the cuffs they’d brought down, and his attention was riveted on something in front of him that Dean couldn’t see. He concentrated, saw the flickering silhouette of a man--another _Dean_ \--standing at the foot of Sam’s bed.

“The point?” Sam was saying to the empty air, to the figure flickering in front of Dean’s mind’s eye, “How about stop the damn apocalypse?”

Dean couldn’t hear what the other him, the flickering him, was saying, and he wished that he could. Maybe if he just concentrated a little harder... but even in this dream half-world his head was killing him with the psychic gymnastics he was having to do to see the Dean that wasn’t there.

“Just leave me alone,” Sam said.

Dean saw the image of himself flicker in front of him again and he realized something suddenly. _Come on, Sammy, see it... Your Dean is wearing blue._

“Shut up!” Sammy screamed, fighting against the cuffs.

_Come on, Sammy, come on. His shirt, look at his shirt, it’s the wrong one. This isn’t your Dean._

He thought he was braced for anything, coming here, but he wasn’t expecting the mirage of himself to grow stronger as he sent the thought to Sam. He started to hear words, under a static that had to be EVP. _You’re a monster_ , he heard, and his heart skipped a beat. He was riveted as he heard the filth spilling from the flickering figure. _And I tried so hard... to pretend that we were brothers. But we’re not even the same species. You’re nothing to me._

Dean got to his feet, pulling all of himself that he could into this reality, and he did the first thing that came to mind. He _ran_ at the figure at the foot of Sam’s bed. Connecting with it was like running into a wall of static. The force of the collision knocked Dean back like he was on the end of a bungee cord. There was a giant Dean-sized hole in the vision of, well, him, and he felt like he was about to lose his lunch, and probably lose the connection to this world entirely, but before he could, he sent one more thought to Sam. _I’d never say that shit to you, Sammy. Never._

Whatever had happened hadn’t knocked Dean out of the room like he expected. His vision swam but re-calibrated. Sam sat up as far as he could and blinked, and then he felt something gripping him, holding him steady, anchoring him in the room. He closed his eyes and he saw dappled gold. It was the most beautiful thing he’d seen all damn day.

“What the fuck? Dean?” Sam called. “Which one of you--”

“Sammy?” Dean called from the place where he had landed, up against the wall. His voice sounded ruined even to his own ears.

Sam sat, blinking and looking dazed. “What the fuck?” 

Dean inched into Sam’s line of sight and called again. “Sammy? Do you see me?”

“Yeah. ‘Course I can see you, you freak of nature,” Sam said and grinned, all white teeth and relief. “Did he send you? The little guy?”

“Maybe he did. What’s it to you?”

“That wasn’t my Dean, was it?” Sam sounded almost giddy.

“Right you are.”

“Man, you are... That was...”

“Finish a sentence, why don’t you?”

“You’re a ninja.”

“You expected something less? Am I not _the_ Dean Winchester?”

“Man, you have no idea. You have no idea.”

“Enlighten me. I think we’ve got some time down here.”

*~*~*

Sam spent the next little while trying to shock him. He spent the next little while trying not to be shocked. Which turned out to be pretty easy when the first thing Sam said was, “The yellow-eyed demon fed me his blood.”

“I know,” Dean said. “It’s a demon?”

“Yeah. Full-fledged. What do you mean, you know?”

“You just got done telling me I was a psychic ninja and you wanna know how I know?”

“Be serious for five seconds, Dean.”

“I am serious. I saw it. I knew something was wrong in your room so I went and I saw the bastard do it. He wanted me to. So find something else to shock me, wonder boy.”

“I’m kinda... Dean thinks I’m addicted to the stuff and he ha--”

“Doesn’t hate you. That wasn’t him, remember?”

“But you’re not him either,” Sam said. “There’s a lot you don’t know. There’s a lot I hope you never find out.”

“Well, now, _that_ is a crock of shit. You fucked Sammy up pretty bad, man, and I get it, I _hate_ this place, and you were pretty fucked up yourself and I wish you were out of here... but you can’t sit here telling me you keep pulling my brother in here because you don’t want him to know shit. Your logic is false.”

“I-- Yeah. That was fucked up... Man, I’m sorry, it’s just....”

“We don’t belong to you.” He leveled his gaze at Sam, waiting for that to sink in. “And I’ll tell you something else. You have to fix this shit with _your_ Dean.”

“Yeah...”

“But I think you can.”

“That makes one of us.”

“Well, I’ll tell you one way it’s not gonna happen, and that’s if you never even try.”

“How am I gonna do it?”

“Am I supposed to have the answer to everything? ‘Cause last I checked I was seventeen, and that wasn’t part of my job description.”

Sam blew out a breath. “I just... I need help. I want my brother back.”

“So do I, Sammy, so do I. I bet you a million he wants the same thing.”

“He’s so different now. I think he’s broken.”

“He’s.... What happened to him?”

“Well, for one thing, I died.”

*~*~*

Dean let Sam talk. And talk. And talk. If there was one thing Sam was still good at, it was talking. That was how he knew that his brother was still in there, underneath everything, dappled gold and ferocious as ever. He listened, and he waited, until Sam suddenly stopped with, “And I buried him and I just... I waited to die. And she came for me.” 

“No way.” Dean shivered. “No way. And you trusted her? Sammy, that’s sick.”

“You don’t seem too put out that a demon gave you psychic powers.”

“I... That’s different. I need them. They’re useful.”

“And I used mine for good, too.”

“But you promised him you wouldn’t. And now look at you, Sammy.”

Sam bristled. “I’ve done a lot worse to him than breaking one promise. I’m going to even the score.”

“Is it worth the way he looks at you now? The way he’s dead inside?”

“I didn’t do that to him. Lilith did that to him.”

“But you sure aren’t helping matters much.”

“What else am I supposed to do? How do I ever even the score?”

“Maybe you don’t.”

“You’re acting like I can get him back. He went to hell.”

“Willingly. Isn’t that enough, Sammy? Why isn’t that enough?”

And there it was. Sam was speechless.

*~*~*

The two of them sat in a companionable silence. All was quiet. Until Sam did finally speak again. “What if it’s too late? I need the demon blood.”

 

“I bet that shit burns going down,” was all Dean said. 

“Yeah, it--” Sam sighed. “What the fuck do I do, Dean?”

He started to run energy into Sam without being asked, questing with the golden light until it reached Sam’s own. He quested through the dark and the cold, determined to fill Sam with the light, with hope, with _anything_. He filled every crevice he could find with the golden light, ignoring the howl of terrible, biting wind, until he reached Sam’s center, finding something hard and black that screamed with need, loss, and a terrible hunger. He pulled the darkness from Sam, turned it to gold and watched Sam closely. 

What he noticed first was that Sam was still. He hadn’t noticed the fine tremor in Sam’s body until suddenly it was gone.

“How’s that?” he asked.

“What... What did you do?”

“I don’t know, you tell me.”

“I feel...better.”

“Good.”

“Now what?”

“I think you might be talking to the wrong one of us.”

Sam scoffed. “He doesn’t want to talk. He won’t even come near me. He threw me _in here_.”

“I know. But there’s only so much I can do. Especially--” 

An involuntary shiver went down Dean’s spine. “What the fuck?” One by one, the cuffs around Sam’s wrists and ankles undid themselves. Dean shivered involuntarily, his stomach lurching with apprehension. The door opened next, and something blasted into Dean, like a hot wind. The power that had been anchoring him in this world dissipated in a flash. Dean felt like he’d been hit by a truck. “Shit. Sammy! I can’t stay! Just... go and talk to him. Don’t do anything until you talk to him. I’ll come back!”

And in the next instant Sam and the round room were gone.


	14. Hangman's Knot

“I have to go back,” was the first thing out of Dean’s mouth when he opened his eyes and found himself back with Sammy.

“I told you,” Sammy said. “How’s he doing?”

“I don’t know. Better. Something knocked me out of there. I think we gotta go back.”

“We? Really?”

“Yeah. We gotta restore the bond, and I think... I may be... I think it’s a two-person job.”

“Are you sure?”

“Well, I’m sure I can’t get through to his Dean,” Dean said.

“So, what, that’s my job now?”

“Well, you are his brother.”

“We’re so screwed.”

“They’re screwed worse.”

Sam offered Dean his “I will totally humor you, but not for too long,” half-smile. “Hey. What the hell are we gonna do about Dad? If he comes back and we’re both passed out cold--”

Dean groaned. “Pray he gets a flat tire?”

“I could live with that. C’mon, let’s go.”

They lay together in the bed and closed their eyes, relying on their mutual memories of the round room to get themselves there.

*~*~*

Somewhere near the Michigan border, John Winchester heard a sudden pop like a gunshot and cursed, veering for the side of the road.

At least Dean was on his way where he was needed. Right again, as always.

*~*~*

They arrived. Sam was still on the bed, lying there despite all four cuffs being popped and the iron door still invitingly open.

“Okay,” Dean said, “You’re gonna have to help me with this one. What are you still doing here, glutton for punishment?”

Sam turned and regarded him and then his eyes met Sammy’s, sending a shiver through his brother that Dean could feel. “Oh. Both of you. Hi, Sam.”

“Uh. Hi.”

“I can’t leave here... Not yet. Isn’t done yet,” the older man said, looking at Dean.

“No, it isn’t.”

“You gave me some time to think. A little bit of time without the...” Sam scrubbed a hand over his face. “I just want this _over with_. I want my brother back.”

“Okay....”

Sam was breathing hard. “And the cuffs and the door.... He wouldn’t believe anything I say. He’d probably blame Ruby--”

“He’d probably be right,” Dean said.

Sam made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Couldn’t even touch the door.”

“Oh.”

“Uh, guys? What exactly is the plan?” Sammy asked, looking nervously from him to Sam and back.

“You’re going upstairs,” he said.

“Great. With Bobby and...Dean?”

“I don’t think they’ll be able to see you. He didn’t see me.”

“Wonderful. So what do I do?”

“I guess you have to get Dean to come down.”

“And I suppose you don’t have any advice for me on how I’m doing this.”

“You’re a genius,” he said, looking Sammy right in the eye and hoping he would understand just how much he meant it. “I know you can figure it out.”

Sam shrugged. “And what’s your job?”

“Making sure Sam can take the bond when it comes back his way. Trust me, I’ll be just as busy as you.”

“Okay. Whatever. Good luck.” Sammy turned and trudged up the stairs.

“Go get ‘em, boy wonder,” Dean called after him. He sent all the love and confidence he could muster down the bond, moving into the doorway to watch Sam’s progress, and was rewarded with seeing his shoulders loosen and his step become lighter.

_Thanks. Needed that._

_I know. Sorry. Trust me, I’ve got my work cut out for me down here._

_Feels like you’re holding something back. About him._

_Some things you don’t want to know, kiddo. Trust me._

_Trying._ The doubt crept back into Sammy’s voice, and Dean bit his lip. There was only one way to go from here and that was forward. Once more into the breach... He watched until Sam reached the top of the stairs and then he went back behind the iron door.

“So I gave you a break, huh?” he smiled wryly at Sam. “Let’s see if we can nip this thing in the bud. Dean’s never tried to do that, has he?”

“Are you kidding? No. We aren’t... like you two. He wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Oh. Well it’s a good thing I have skills.” He sat Indian-style on the floor. “Okay. Let’s kill this thing. You ready?”

“Ready.”

“I’m not gonna stop for anything. I want this thing gone, and as quickly as possible. You sure you’re ready for me?”

“Hell, yes. I want this over with.”

“I got you. Let’s go.”

*~*~*

Upstairs, Sam crept into the main room of Bobby’s house, finding Dean and Bobby sound asleep. He tried making some noise, slamming a few books around, and got no response. Maybe Dean was right and he was totally invisible. Maybe he’d have to construct a dream or something. He bit his lip and looked this Dean over. Every line of his body telegraphed fatigue and fear, his muscles tensed as if he was ready to bound out of sleep at any second.

He caught a glimpse of something shining amid Dean’s clothes and felt pride rise in his chest despite himself. He remembered the day he gave Dean that amulet like it was yesterday. And he was still wearing it. He was still wearing it. Suddenly, he wasn’t half as afraid as he had been.

*~*~*

Downstairs, Dean grounded and centered himself. He pulled at the energy from everywhere else in his body and pushed it into his center. He turned the energy into the soothing color blue. Then, from his center, he ran roots into the ground, feeling the floor under him help to keep him grounded. He didn’t always bother to do these exercises, but today he knew he would be pushing himself to the outer limits of his capabilities. He took a deep breath and looked into Sam’s energy pattern, finding the same red and black lines that had been in Sammy’s. Now that he knew what he was looking at, he could barely find any gold at all. 

This was not gonna be fun. 

He closed his eyes tightly and dove right in, remembering that with Sammy the key had been to go as deep as he possibly could before starting to cut. His skin tingled and burned as he went deeper and deeper. Finally, when the burn was almost too much to bear, he stopped his descent and started to cut.

*~*~*

Upstairs, Sam zeroed in on the amulet, pulling up everything he had ever felt about it. He brought to mind the miserable brown motel room, the scratchy surface of the couch under his knees, the feel of the newsprint under his fingers as he wrapped the gift. He brought to mind Dean’s face, gratitude clear on his features when he spoke: “Thank you, Sam, I love it.”

Sam pushed the memory outward, fully formed, willed it into Dean’s consciousness, and then moved closer, touching the amulet where it hung around Dean’s neck. It was warm under his fingers. Sam smiled to himself, watching Dean, willing him to dream. Soon, memories that weren’t Sam’s rose to meet him. 

He saw Sam and Dean hunting, moving seamlessly together even when they worked different angles of the same case. What they lacked in telepathy, they made up for in skill and a simple _knowing_. Sam saw them watching a surveillance tape, shooing their host from the room for beer and sandwiches to get a closer look. He watched them, separated into twin holding cells, unscrambling the same anagram in record time. He saw Dean stop what he was doing to put a plastic spoon into a sleeping Sam’s slightly open mouth. He watched Sam retaliate with Crazy Glue and Dean fill his brother’s pants with itching powder. He grinned to himself and underlined the word in his mind. _Brothers._

More and more memories rose from inside the amulet. Sam in a cage smiling up at Dean. Dean waking tied up, to find Sam right there in his space, frantically working the knots. Sam was lost in the sheer magnitude of memories, feeling their weight as he scanned them, underlining bits and pieces and attaching his own name at regular intervals. _Brother Sam. Sam. Sam. He’s still here. Needs you. Wants you. Any kind of you there is. Whatever’s left. Dean, he’s_ here. _And so are you._

He touched the amulet, let it burn his fingers, and stepped back, waiting.

*~*~*

Sam lay shivering on the bed, his entire energy pattern quivering as Dean worked. He dug deeply into the mass of cords until he saw them forming a twisted cocoon around Sam’s heart. Bile and dread rose into his throat. He reached out with the golden power and touched the cocoon gently. The barest brush against Sam’s heart made him gasp and pull himself into the fetal position. Dean searched with all of his senses for the faintest tinge of gold but found nothing other than the sentient cords of black and red. He braced himself for the hours of work ahead of him, standing up and going to Sam’s side.

“I could set you off again. We should do these back up.”

Sam nodded and spread himself out on the bed again with some effort. His hands were shaking as they reached for the cold metal cuffs. Dean held up a hand. "Here. Let me."

Dean concentrated fiercely on making a physical impression in this world, the way he had concentrated on killing Sam’s hallucination. He touched one of the cuffs and felt the same sort of static shock go through him, pushing him away from Sam. He felt drained and a little shaky but he willed himself to touch this reality one, two, three more times. Then he went to the door and willed it closed. When he was finally finished he was shaking outright. He ran a hand through Sam’s hair and then set on the ground again, redoing his centering exercise. Some of the strands had re-knit themselves, but that couldn’t be helped.

“Whatever you did before to hold me here, I really think I’m gonna need it this time. Can you manage it?”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “But I dunno for how long. You’ll be taking away the power, too, won’t you?”

“Maybe. I don’t exactly have a demon detox manual.”

Sam barked out a laugh. “Yeah. Okay.”

He closed his eyes and watched as Sam used the power this time, holding him fast to the floor with a snake-like strand of red. He shivered a little as the potential consequences for all this hit him between the eyes briefly, but he shook away his doubt and fear. This was for Sam. And for Sammy. Whatever had happened to this Sam, he and Sammy would know to do things differently. There was no way this entire experience wouldn’t be burned into their memories forever. This was the path they would not, could not take. He would die first. It was as simple as that.

He took another deep, grounding breath and set to work.

*~*~*

Sam’s heart skipped a beat as the memories poured forth. Dean, seconds too late to save Sam from the knife in his back, cradling Sam as he died. Dean inside one of the buildings with Sam’s _body_. Dean standing in the middle of a road, talking to a woman with red eyes. The sounds of dogs on the prowl.

 _Shit. Dean, finish up, please finish up..._ , Sammy thought. _Tell me you’re ready. Please tell me you’re ready._

 _Not ready,_ Dean called up to him.

_My dream is turning into a nightmare... Hurry up!_

_I really can’t. His heart... It’s totally buried. I might kill him if I go too fast._

_God... this is..._

_I know. Hang in there, please._

The memories kept tumbling forward. A deep, dark night filled with the barks and scuffles of the invisible dogs, looking into people’s faces and seeing hell itself. The feeling of claws digging in at last, a year they were kept at bay ending in one final moment of pain. 

He saw Dean bloodied and hanging from a massive rack, screaming his name, and he couldn’t take it anymore. He _flew_ at Dean, willing himself to make some kind of contact and wake the man up. He was rewarded with a static shock that knocked him back across the room and a groggy Dean opening green eyes to look in Sam’s direction, looking _through_ him. But that didn’t matter. Dean was awake. 

When Dean filled a glass with water and went to the top of the basement stairs, Sam followed.

*~*~*

They were greeted by the sounds of Sam choking and gasping. Dean opened the slat in the door and sat down heavily on the ground, his back firmly pressed against the metal. He put his head in his hands, running his fingers through his hair. “I’m here, Sam, okay? You don’t-- You don’t have to answer me. I’m here.”

Sammy’s chest hurt. He slid down the wall and landed with a thump beside Dean.

_Dean! What the... What are you doing? It hurts._

There was no answer. No _answer_. Sammy instantly pushed on the bond, testing it, but it was still there. Dean had shielded himself, twin layers of bricks and Sammy _couldn’t get to him._ He thought of earlier that night, seemingly years away, when Dean had blasted his shield down, but that had probably taken hours of work. Sam slumped in his position beside the older Dean, overwhelmed with the pain in his chest. Inside the room, the older Sam was shaking in his cuffs, rapid-fire clinks and gasps the only sign of life behind the door.

Sammy started up a silent litany for _his_ Dean. _Please talk to me, this hurts, it hurts so bad, and I--_

Then it hit him. There was silence from Dean. Silence. _Talk to me, damn you_ , he thought frantically. _It hurts and I--_ He closed his eyes against the pain, looking with his mind’s eye like he did to watch his own aura, only he looked for Dean again. He saw Dean’s aura, blue and gold and beautiful, wrapped in a strand of the darkest red Sammy had ever seen, the color of spilled, dried blood.

It made Sammy’s skin crawl. It made him want to reach out and grab it, take it into himself _now, dammit, right now._ He cringed, thinking of this darkness touching his brother, tempting him.

_DEAN!_

Whatever it was, that strand was _not_ supposed to be there. Sammy shivered under the wrongness of it, the terrible beauty.

_Please, Dean, oh, Jesus...._

He followed the strand of power, watched it wrapped around his brother and pulsing, one end of it vanishing into the area of Dean’s heart, the other pushing into a nearly blackened aura beside him that had to be the older Sam. Dean was sucking the power, the strand _into_ himself and oh, God.

_DEAN! Please! Please stop doing this, please stop. Please let him go. You're dying, I fucking hate you so much right now... Stop killing yourself..._

Then the worst of it occurred to him, sending him icy cold with dread. Dean probably _couldn’t_ answer him right now. What if he couldn’t let go of Sam either? This whole thing was killing Dean. It had started with Sam, it always did. Sam always needing and taking, not thinking what the dreams, what the energy, what any of it was doing to Dean. He had trusted in the soft cocoon of Dean’s love, had always assumed that Dean was _safe_ , doing this, and now....

The older Dean climbed wearily to his feet, braced himself, and opened the door. "I brought you some water, I - Sammy?" Sammy pushed past him, zeroing in on his brother. The older Dean dashed forward, one step behind him. "Hey, can you hear me? Sammy?" 

Sammy focused where he was needed. His Dean’s eyes, his face, were blank, staring sightlessly at Sam on the bed. Sammy got an arm around Dean’s wrist, cursing, and _yanked_. The two of them pinwheeled, landing on the floor. 

“This is _over_ ,” Sammy growled.

He looked into Dean’s eyes, waiting for some recognition, and finding none.

_Dammit._

He had started this. He had brought Dean here. Fuck, he had started this with the first dream, with the fire in the cabin, with the yellow-eyed man.

 _All because I’m cursed._

He blocked out the sounds of the older men in the room: _Come on, Sammy, you can’t die on me now, come on._ , completely focused on his brother’s ashen face, the sudden sunken look around his eyes. “Dean, come on, Dean,” Sam said aloud, not caring who heard him anymore, although no one could.

_Please, God, just let him see me. Just let him come back._

Dean’s only response was a pained scream, twisting in Sammy’s arms. On the bed, Sam jerked, convulsing. Sammy couldn’t bear to look up at him, couldn’t even bring himself to _care_. He held Dean, he held his world, tightly by the wrists, pulling him in close, cocooning him. Everything went deadly silent.

And all Sammy could do was wait.


	15. Lines in the Sand (Knives in the Gut)

THEN  
 _There was silence from Dean. Silence._ Talk to me, damn you _, Sammy thought frantically._ It hurts and I-- _He closed his eyes against the pain, looking with his mind’s eye like he did to watch his own aura, only he looked for Dean again. He saw Dean’s aura, blue and gold and beautiful, wrapped in a strand of the darkest red Sammy had ever seen, the color of spilled, dried blood._

_It made Sammy’s skin crawl. It made him want to reach out and grab it, take it into himself_ now, dammit, right now. _He cringed, thinking of this darkness touching his brother, tempting him._

__DEAN! __

_Whatever it was, that strand was_ not _supposed to be there. Sammy shivered under the wrongness of it, the terrible beauty._

_Sammy focused where he was needed. His Dean’s eyes, his face, were blank, staring sightlessly at the older Sam on the bed. Sammy got an arm around Dean’s wrist, cursing, and_ yanked _. The two of them pinwheeled, landing on the floor._

_“This is_ over _,” Sammy growled._

_He looked into Dean’s eyes, waiting for some recognition, and finding none._

__Dammit. __

_He had started this. He had brought Dean here. Fuck, he had started this with the first dream, with the fire in the cabin, with the yellow-eyed man._

__All because I’m cursed.

_He blocked out the sounds of the older men in the room " _Come on, Sammy, you can’t die on me now, come on_ , completely focused on his brother’s ashen face, the sudden sunken look around his eyes. “Dean, come on, Dean,” Sam said aloud, not caring who heard him anymore, although no one could._

__Please, God, just let him see me. Just let him come back. __

_Dean’s only response was a pained scream, twisting in Sammy’s arms. On the bed, Sam jerked, convulsing. Sammy couldn’t bear to look up at him, couldn’t even bring himself to_ care _. He held Dean, he held his world, tightly by the wrists, pulling him in close, cocooning him. Everything went deadly silent._

_And all Sammy could do was wait._

__

NOW

“Dean! DEAN!” Sammy screamed, willing recognition into Dean’s face, movement into his limbs. But neither came. Nothing changed. He pushed with his own power down the bond, which gave a weak pulse along with Dean's own. He was still here. Still here. Sam just had to get him home, get him _out_ of here.

"Dammit, Sammy, don't you do this to me," the older Dean was saying. "Not like this."

Sammy heard the bolt on the big iron door being drawn back and looked away from his Dean just long enough to register that Bobby was in the room. He was carrying a load of supplies in his arms. He cleared his throat and the other Dean looked up, his features full of grief.

“I found somethin’, might help,” Bobby said. “No promises, but it could bring him back from the brink. Considerin' what's goin' on down here, I thought you might wanna give it a try.”

“Yeah. Whatever you’ve got, Bobby, hit me with it,” the older Dean said.

Sammy watched the two of them despite himself. He was reluctant to keep his attention away from his brother, and yet his focus kept being drawn back to the older men.

Bobby pulled some candles free of the bundle in his arms and laid four of them down, He lit them one at a time and laid a cloth over the figure in the bed. The clinking of the cuffs finally lessened and then stopped. Bobby’s voice filled the room.

“ _Ego restituo totus vinculum ut meus universitas_ ,” Bobby chanted, laying a hand on the figure in the bed.

Exactly nothing happened. Sammy ran the Latin through his mind and blinked. _I renew all bonds to my world._ The Latin was perfect, if only it would do what it was meant to do....

He inched up to the bed, keeping one hand lightly on his brother’s head and touching the older man on the bed with his other hand. He braced himself and repeated the Latin.

“ _Ego restituo totus vinculum ut meus universitas._ ”

On the bed, Sam gasped and a strand of golden light snaked it’s way into the air. Sammy watched as it made its way over to the older Dean and found a home in his chest. As soon as the light found its home, it redoubled in thickness, then redoubled again. All of the light between the two of them turned golden like the morning sun. The air was so bright that Sammy had to look away.

He pushed more of his own energy down the bond and suddenly his brother's chest heaved and his half of the bond strengthened, pulling more and more of his light into Dean. He counted his breaths, centering himself inside the light so that Dean could pull more. And more. The whole room flooded with the golden light until Sam couldn't see anything else. He held onto his brother for dear life and waited for Dean's half of the bond to pick up some of the slack. 

He closed his eyes against the light and heard his brother's voice for the first time in what felt like hours. It came through the bond strong and true. _Sammy?_

He opened his eyes again to find Dean watching him and relief flooded through him at last.

_We're going home. Look at your watch._ He held Dean, cradled his energy close and he pulled, heading for the dingy apartment.

They landed back in Minnesota and the apartment, laying together in the bed, covered in sweat and breathing hard. Sam bolted out of bed, checked Dean's forehead and pulse before he allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief.

He snapped his fingers, _loud_ and Dean opened his eyes, the picture of exhaustion, but with bright eyes.

"What happened? What _happened_ , Sammy?"

"I don't care. I could not care one bit less right now. Do you know what you did in there? Of course you do. Damn you. God damn you for putting yourself at risk like that. How could you think--"

"Listen, it was for you-- It was for--"

"No," he said, letting his voice go deadly cold. "That little show in there was for _you_. Don't think for a second I don't know what you were doing. Sucking that shit down. It's always been like that, hasn't it? Hasn't it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

He continued in the same cold voice, "Don't you dare lie to me. You _can't_ lie to me, I _felt_ his power holding you down. _I_ was having trouble not grabbing onto it and I knew what it was doing to you, that you were half-dead in my arms, Dean. It's addictive. He's an addict and you--"

"We're not going to end up like them. We're gonna do it all different," Dean said, "But I had to know... I have to know what happened."

"I saw their bond come back and I got us the hell home and that is all you need to know."

Dean opened his mouth and closed it again with a snap when he looked into his brother's eyes.

"If the world ends tomorrow because we didn't tie them up in ribbons and string I do not fucking care. I still saved you. I had to _save_ you, do you understand me?"

"I--"

"So this is _over_. Dad was right."

Dean deflated, looking small and pale and barely there in the bed. His eyes were still sunken, his breathing ragged. He closed his eyes tight. Years worth of pain surfaced on his face. "Don't you say that. Not after all this."

"I'll say what I want to say. You've been killing yourself for years! Haven't you? You always do it that way, don't you? Even I know better, and you've read a ton more than me on this, so I know it's just your personal goddamn death wish. Either that or--"

Sam registered the sound of a familiar engine and the slam of a car door. Sam shot Dean a look to let him know they were _not finished_. Instinctively, he scrambled up and fit himself in the doorway of their room, blocking Dean from view. Dad stumbled in, turning to duck inside their room and finding him there, looking relatively calm and collected, all things considered.

"Hey, kiddo. You look okay. Dean work his mojo on you?"

"Yeah. We're fine."

"What was it?"

"Just a bad nightmare."

"Didn't sound that way." Dad scrubbed a hand down his face.

"It was. It was Bobby's house again. Sometimes I get stuck there, that's all."

"Why would that be? Maybe I should call him in the morning."

Sam's heart rose into his throat. He forced lightness into his tone. "Well, everything's fine now."

"You're sure?"

"Positive."

"If you're lying to me, Sam-- You scared the crap out of us. We stopped a hunt."

"I know. I'm sorry, sir. Dean handled it."

"Well, good for him. We're gonna talk about this in the morning."

Sam suppressed a groan. "Okay, Dad, get some sleep."

Dad gave him a chin jerk nod. Subject closed. 

Sam waited in the doorway until he heard Dad's door close and then sat down on the bed beside Dean again.

“You heard the man, good for me," Dean whispered. "If you think for one second that I’m not going to do my job--”

“I’m telling you you’re not _doing your job_ if you’re not doing it safely!”

“That’s not my prob--"

“You almost kill-- I can’t even say... Dean, you almost _died_.”

“Then so be it. I’m not afraid. As long as you’re ok--”

“You’re not _afraid_? Are you even thinking of how I would feel-- how I _did_ feel? You were dying in my arms and there was nothing....”

"So what's your solution? You're just not gonna need me anymore? We just won't worry about you anymore, screw everything? When we know the dreams could probably kill you and the one thing that sends me straight to hell is if that happens? And what are you, not afraid of death now?"

"You just said as much yourself! And what are you talking about, going to hell?"

"That's what happened to him. That's what broke their bond. The...future me... went to hell."

"That's not going to happen. You said it yourself, we're going to be different."

"Yeah, well, what's the one thing we've got that they haven't?"

He shook his head at Dean, pulled all of his energy into his center and settled a shield around himself, a hundred spinning knives. "You come near my shield and it will _eat_ you," he growled.

"You can't do that, Sammy. Come on."

"Yes I can, and I will. I _did_. I can't believe you."

Dean looked into his face, the picture of incredulity.

"Dad was right and I'm gonna tell him--"

"Oh, wonderful plan," Dean growled right back. "You know that's what he's been waiting for this whole time. You _know_ what he'll do. You want him to take away everything that keeps us together? You want him to find a way to rip us apart like that?"

Sam blinked wordlessly.

"You give him that ammunition, Sammy, and he won't ever stop. Not for anything."

"Fine. But I am serious. I don't trust you with this anymore. You are done 'saving me.' You hear me? I don't-- I can't have your life in my hands like that. I--"

"But you think I can have yours. Sam, I'm your brother. I can't just... You're my responsibility."

"No, I'm not. Not while you can't even take care of yourself."

"I've done fine for years now. This was just...."

"A big job. I know. And I brought you there. See? I know it's my fault, Dean. That's why I gotta just... I can't let you do this to yourself anymore. So it's done. Whatever happens happens, you hear me? Unless...."

"Unless what?"

"Unless you can promise me you'll be safe and you won't suck down the darkness."

Dean closed his eyes, and silence fell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of book 1. I will begin posting book 2 soon. I almost was ready to scrap book 2 to avoid how dark this material (originally a 'verse) eventually got. It seems that somehow even as far back as 2008 I could tap into a Dean that was essentially S10 Dean. What can I say, Dean is very vibrant and can come to live in a writer's mind. There are a number of people from those years who I've lost touch with, as I needed to leave the fandom at that time, but I'm forever indebted to them, especially to Tahirire from LiveJournal and a slew of other friends and betas who stepped in. Often one of them would posit what Sam would do when faced with what I showed them from Dean and this worked really well to create some of the scenes of this novel. 
> 
> I am not in fact scrapping 40k of writing, so you will receive Of Dreams and Demons (ODAD) in more or less its original form with the ending as I now understand it to be. I hope you enjoyed what I've come to understand is book 1. I'll be back with book 2 as soon as I can.


	16. Book 2: Going It Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after Sam and Dean’s psychic damage control finally ends. The consequences are mounting. (There are lots of chapter notes, and they are important.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today is my birthday and I did some tweaking and polished the ending today after some Real Writing Job stuff. So I am not sure how much of the novel I'll get posted today, but I'm between assignments so I'll go as fast as I can. I don't have the patience to do weekly postings or anything like that.
> 
> A note about this section of the series: Roughly it is actually going to cover bits of S1, S4, and S6. If you look for it you can also see S10 and S12, tho I was writing, except the last chapter, in 2008-2011. This was originally a 'verse and I am preserving it in much of its original form. However, in order to keep it relatively close to what I intended when I made "ODAD 'verse" my happy place, some of the fics will be given at the end as outtakes. As I was writing, I was dealing with a lot of heavy things that made the writing darker, and Dean, Sam and I all want this to remain the 'verse as originally intended.
> 
> The truth is that I burned out around 60k with this the first time (this version is not going to be quite that long) because it got so dark. I also sort of had other intentions for it, but some of them didn't translate well to the page.
> 
> Because it was written over so long of a period, and because it covers soooooo much of the show's canon, book 2 is very verse-y and a little bit less clearly a novel. However, I'm giving it back to you, the fandom. I did this because Sam and Dean put pieces of themselves into this (and truthfully so did I). I feel very strongly about the fandom zeitgeist and although some of my fic gets quite dark and is maybe "embarrassing" on some level, I don't want to be the type of writer Emily Dickinson was, whose writing was only found in her personal items after she died. I know, grim, right? I'm a horror writer.... ;)
> 
> So I do hope you like this, and just be aware that if I were to make it less "verse-y" or "verse-ish" as I've been thinking in my brain...I'd have to keep writing and editing for another year that I don't have guaranteed to me. So I do hope what is there is appreciated...not because anyone owes me but because I love this Dean and this Sam so very much it's a bit beyond what I can say. Acknowledgments will be at the end of the book, but again, this book wouldn't be what it was without a cadre of fans from earlier in the series.
> 
> Because this was originally posted as a 'verse in separate segments, and because there are a lot of moving parts to the 'verse, there are some THEN and NOW segments. Bear with me, as I am leaving them in. :) I also apologize for any weirdness that comes from possibly my beta notes not making sense since I was last in this world in 2011-ish.
> 
> Begin book 2.

THEN

 _"You think I don't know what this is about?" Sam finally exploded. "I can't even believe you! When are you going to stop thinking Dean's some kind of... freak_ droid _or something? As if he even wants into your he--"_

 _"When are you going to admit that it's not_ natural _?" Dad bellowed. "We can't encourage this, Sam!"_

_*~*~*_

_"So this is _over_. Dad was right."_

_Dean deflated, looking small and pale and barely there in the bed. His eyes were still sunken, his breathing ragged. He closed his eyes tight. Years worth of pain surfaced on his face. "Don't you say that. Not after all this."_

_"I'll say what I want to say. You've been killing yourself for years! Haven't you? You always do it that way, don't you? Even I know better, and you've read a ton more than me on this, so I know it's just your personal goddamn death wish. Either that or--"_

_*~*~*_

_He shook his head at Dean, pulled all of his energy into his center and settled a shield around himself, a hundred spinning knives. "You come near my shield and it will _eat_ you," he growled._

_"You can't do that, Sammy. Come on."_

_"Yes I can, and I will. I _did_."_

_NOW_

_The next morning dawned clear and crisp. Dad and Dean slept in long past time for morning drills, leaving him to his own devices. He crept around the house almost silently, moving as he had been trained to even on a peaceful Sunday morning. He made the coffee, checked the salt lines, and was even thinking about starting to clean the guns when Dean emerged. Sam went to his backpack and picked out his copy of _The Scarlet Letter_ , working hard on studiously ignoring him. He kept silent and still while Dean moved slowly around the room, getting coffee and sitting at the small, busted up table in the half of the room that served as a kitchen._

_“So it’s the silent treatment now, huh? Dad’s gonna love that, too.”_

_Sam huffed out a sigh and dropped his book on the coffee table. He looked up into his brother’s face, still pale and sunken. He could barely stop staring now that he’d seen what his brother looked like the morning after. “You look like shit,” he offered. “And you’re moving like an old woman.”_

_“Yeah, well. I’ll be okay.”_

_“Today’s gonna be fun,” Sam muttered._

_“No kidding.”_

_“What do we tell--” The sound of Dad’s door opening forced him back into silence. He rubbed his eyes, sighed and--_

_\--instinctively reached for Dean with the bond. He was met with Dean’s usual shield, twin layers of bricks that it would take hours to bust down._

__Shit._ _

_Okay, so maybe he hadn’t realized how much using the bond was second nature. Maybe he deserved to be shut out._

_“You two look happy,” Dad said dryly from behind him, and they both looked up. “Coffee first, and then you level with me about what really happened last night.”_

_*~*~*_

_They sat around the small kitchen table. He looked between his sons. There was something decidedly wrong with both of them today. They kept glancing at each other and looking away, and they seemed out of sync. He was used to them providing a unified front, and one look at them told him that there wasn’t one to be had. It was surprisingly jarring. He hadn’t been aware of how used he was to the usual quiet harmony between them until he watched them now and found none._

_“It was a dream,” Sam was saying, keeping his tone very blase._

_“Here’s the problem,” he said, “A dream doesn’t leave you looking like you’ve gone ten rounds in a fight.”_

_“Mine do,” Sam said, his eyes and his attention pointedly staying _away_ from Dean._

_“Well, then, Dean pulled quite a number on your behalf, didn’t he?”_

_Sam looked away, staring at nothing in particular._

_“Sam did his part too. I went a little too deep this time,” Dean said._

_“I’ll say you did. And?”_

_“And Sam doesn’t like it,” Dean said and shrugged._

_“You can’t be putting yourself at risk. You look like hell. What kind of dream does any of this?”_

_“Now you know what I’ve been keeping under wraps for Sam all these years,” Dean said and shrugged. “It was a bad one.”_

_“You said something had Sam. You were _not_ acting like this was just a nightmare, and I don’t believe you now.”_

_“They’ve been getting worse,” Sam admitted, jumping in to Dean’s defense as he always did._

_“That’s it? I just have to buy that? And, what, not worry about you two? That’s bullshit.. And the way you two are behaving today.... What _happened_? Did you lose your mojo?”_

_The two of them sat blinking at him silently, and that was all he needed to see._

_*~*~*_

_It turned out that time moved slow as molasses without the comfortable presence of Dean in the back of Sam’s head. The day dragged on and on, with Dad giving them both odd looks whenever he emerged from his room, where he was doing research on yet another possible chupacabra. Sam couldn’t concentrate enough to study, or read, and whenever he went mentally questing for Dean, all he got was darkness and silence. He cursed himself every time for the words that must have cemented in Dean’s head after all these years: _Dad was right._ _

_Sam wanted--needed--to apologize for that, for everything, but Dean wasn’t even looking him in the eye, much less speaking to him. The hours stretched on, and even Dad was getting unsettled by this new, pregnant silence between them._

_Dean kept moving like an old woman, so much so that Dad left on the next hunt without him, leaving the two of them to their own devices despite the tension they were mired in._

_On the third night after Dad left, he dreamed. He dreamed of the golden light, filling everything and then turning putrid in the air around him, shifting from golden to a sickening yellow. He knew this-- He--_

_A familiar voice cut through everything, cutting into Sam’s core. “Good job, there, Sammy, my boy. I couldn’t have asked for better if I had done it myself.” A man emerged from the light, grinning so that all of his teeth showed brilliant white, eyes glinting yellow. “I wasn’t sure you’d ever give up your connection, but something in me just _knew_. I said to myself, ‘Let them _see_ what a beautiful disaster it all is,’ and suddenly I had a fighting chance,” he sneered, “against dear old Dean-o.”_

_He shivered, Dean’s voice clear in his head. _What's the one thing we've got that they haven't?__

_The yellow-eyed man laughed from deep in his gut. “He won’t ever recover, you know. Not by a long shot. You took him out of the running all by yourself. ‘Oh. Dream with me, Dean,’” the man mimicked. “Such a thing of beauty, you sending him to his near-death. But the question is... how do I ever repay you? Oh, I guess I don’t.”_

_“Fuck you,” Sam growled._

_“You’re, what do they say? Spirited. Quite spirited, Sammy boy, but it won’t save you, or him.”_

_“You’ll never win,” Sam said. “Get the hell out of my head.”_

_“Oh, but it’s so nice and dark in here, Sammy-boy. I’m really right at home.”_

_Sam pushed against the dream world, looking for his watch, but unable to summon the image of it._

_The yellow-eyed man smiled, all teeth. “You think something like that works on someone like me?” he asked. “You’ll be going back when _I_ say, psychic boy.”_

_“You gave it to us,” Sam said, confused. “Why would you want it gone?”_

_“No, actually. I gave something to Dean. You, you were a natural. I should have foreseen this, but, well, nobody is perfect, right? As long as he’s doing his job, all’s well... But then again, if he suddenly stops, it’s no skin off my back. There are others.” He smiled viciously. “You remember that, Sammy-boy, and decide how you want it to go. You’ll see how useful Dean is to you now, hm?”_

_In the next moment, he saw black, billowing smoke flowing out of the man’s mouth, and then the man’s eyes turned from yellow to green. The man fell to his knees, toppling over onto his stomach. Sam reached forward and touched him, finding no pulse._

_He pulled himself willfully from the dream, swimming up through pulsing, rotted darkness and blood red. His chest burned as he moved up through the sea of energy, reminding himself that it was only a dream; he wouldn’t be stuck. He didn’t need Dean._

_He pulled himself back to reality, to the apartment and his room with Dean. The first thing he felt was wetness on his cheeks. The second thing, there was a pair of eyes on him._

_"I did what you asked," Dean said. "I didn't wake you up."_


	17. Book 2: One Step Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean reluctantly makes a long distance phone call and gets some advice. Sam is on edge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See Ch. 16 notes.

_THEN_

__

Missouri’s face screwed up when she saw John, but her attention went like a magnet to little Dean, sucking his thumb and staring like he always seemed to these days. They’d gone in with Sammy in Dean’s arms, because when John had tried to pull the baby away Dean had shrieked, and John really could barely handle the fact that they were here, let alone his kid’s post-traumatic-whatever, and God, he was four… John just couldn’t think about that anymore. He needed answers. That was why they were here and that was what he was going to focus on. So they all three went in like that and Missouri looked like she’d swallowed a lemon when she looked at the Winchester men, and if that didn’t just fit John didn’t know what did anymore, even as he felt a surge of indignation.

__

“Dean Winchester,” she said, “you poor boy,” before John had said word one. Her voice managed to be warm even with the sadness in it. Still, he looked at her hard.

__

“Did Jim call you?” he asked in a tone that sounded rough even to him.

__

“Nobody’s gotta call Missouri, honey, you should know that much,” she said, and John had to work to hold back a shiver.

__

*~*~*

__

“I mean it about those boys, John,” she said, again using a name she had never been given. “Get that look off your face, boy, I ain’t gonna eat you.”

__

John cleared his throat but said nothing and she went on.

__

“Listen, I better tell you this first so you’ll actually listen to what I say. You’re right about the fire. There was somethin’ evil in your house that night, John, an’ now it’s come and gone. All right?”

__

“Not really—but—“ he sighed and nodded. “And?”

__

“And now I suppose there ain’t nothin’ for it but for you to go after it. You’re not gonna rest ‘til that thing’s stopped from spreadin’ its evil in our world. I’ll be watchin’ that house.” It was a statement of fact, not an offer. “That’s in my backyard, so it’d be damn stupid not to. You’ve got bigger things on your plate than that, though, John.”

__

He nodded along as she spoke, his thoughts clearing for once. He had a job to do, and it would require tactics and planning. He pushed everything else away and focused on Missouri and her words. 

__

“This is big, John. It ain’t just you. I think you know that, but now I’m tellin’ you, too. You’re going to help a lot of people, and don’t you forget that, hear me? It’s going to take some time and I can’t tell you how long. We don’t get that kind of stuff.”

__

John nodded.

__

“You keep that family of yours together and they’ll keep you strong, John. Don’t you forget them. You’re dealin’ with an evil, it can kill a man’s spirit, his fire.”

__

John swallowed hard and said nothing.

__

“I know you know about that, too. But you’ll be all right. You just hold onto those boys, and you fight hard. It’s all you can do. You have my number?”

__

“Thought nobody had to call you,” he said, and he could have smiled, but he didn’t.

__

She nodded. “Walked into that,” she admitted. She didn’t have to. “Now and again it’s a good idea, ‘f you really need me. Could happen.” Then she sighed. “John. I’m sorry.”

__

He gave a chin-jerk nod. It was genuine, coming from her, without an ounce of pity in it. He took out the light brown leather planner he had in the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled the pen from inside it. “Okay, let me have it.”

__

He didn’t like the idea of _needing_ to have a conversation like this again, but if he had to, he’d call her.

__

They went back into the kitchen to get the boys. At first, John couldn’t see Sam at all with the way Dean had him pressed tight against his chest. After John had assured himself that Sam had not in fact disappeared, but was only swaddled in his yellow blankie that Mary had crocheted for the baby while she was pregnant, he focused his attention on his older son.

__

That was when he realized Missouri had run ahead of him and was crouched in front of Dean. “Child,” John heard her say, and he looked up to see her put out a big hand toward him, but she didn’t touch him or Sam.

__

She stayed crouched there, but she moved back a little and was quiet, searching for something to say. Then she leaned forward and whispered something in Dean’s ear. He looked up at her, and John saw fresh tear tracks on his face, his eyes reddened from crying and still nearly brimming over. Dean was completely silent. He looked up at her and gave a solemn nod and she smiled a thin, sad smile down at him. She leaned in and whispered again and the boy took a shaky breath, but his features relaxed, and his grip on Sammy did too.

__

_“You three’d best get yourselves gone from here,” Missouri said in a soft, serious tone. “It’s no good stayin’ with all that’s happened. Especially for this little one here,” she said, patting Dean’s hand._

*~*~*

NOW

Dean lasted for a week. A week of staying up, staring at nothing and waiting, just waiting, to see Sam shift into a dream. He couldn’t sleep, wasn’t really eating.

He was waiting.

Waiting for Sam to tell him this was all a joke; they were fine. Waiting for an apology that he knew wasn’t forthcoming. 

He was tired of ducking away from Sam’s gaze, full of shame as the words repeated themselves in his head, everything Dad had ever accused him of, only in Sam’s cold voice: _I swear, sometimes it seems like you want to be a freak._

It figured that as soon as he reached a semblance of peace with Dad, something would go wrong between him and Sam.

He couldn’t win. He hadn’t in a long time.

Another night had passed, sleepless but ultimately uneventful, and he found himself looking in his duffel for his small black planner, the one he had bought when he started to read the books on working with energy, that he took all his notes in. Inside a front flap he had stowed a short list of phone numbers--Pastor Jim, Uncle Bobby, and Missouri Mosley among them.

He hadn’t seen or spoken to Missouri since he was four years old, and there was a good chance she wouldn’t be there to pick up the phone, it’d been so long, but she had told him to call anytime and he couldn’t think of a better time than right now.

Her voice came onto the line on the second ring. “Dean, honey, it took you long enough.”

“It did?”

“Child, I’ve been feeling you all week long.”

“Why? I’m not--”

“You’re a mess.”

“I’m fine. Really--”

“You expect me to believe that, when you just called me for the first time in your young life? Listen, I know you and Sam aren’t talking, but, hell, I’d settle for you lookin’ each other in the eye,” Missouri said. “Listen to me, Dean. That boy there is all you’ve got. You’ve got to trust him. I know what’s on your mind, and whatever you’re thinking of doing, don’t do it. You hear me? You stick to your brother.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not sure he wants me.”

“Well, tough, he’s got you. That’s how family works. And sometimes that’s _all_ he’s got, and he knows it. I promise you, he does, even if nothing feels right between you two.”

Dean sighed. “What do I do? Do I... I don’t know where to start.”

“Who ever does, honey?”

“I think I might--”

“What did I tell you? Stick to your brother.”

Dean sighed. “Yeah. I heard you.”

“The answer doesn’t change. Good luck, Dean.”

“Thanks, I think.”

“You know where I’ll be.”

He tried to be optimistic after the phone call. They weren’t running low on money yet, so he went and got meat for Sloppy Joes and cooked enough that they’d have plenty of Sam’s favorite guilty pleasure food in the house. He made himself conspicuous in their room, sitting on the bed while Sam kept reading--the Odyssey now. He worked hard at looking Sam right in the eye, but Sam still ducked away whenever Dean came too close to reestablishing anything like rapport between them. 

And he waited.

That seemed to be all he was doing anymore.

*~*~*

They were sitting down to another long, silent meal over Sloppy Joes.

“This is the stupidest fight we’ve ever had,” he said.

“No. The stupidest fight would be over the last _sandwich_ , Dean. Not over you almost killing yourself in front of me, telling me it’s for me, and... just... whatever you think you’re doing.”

“So now you want to punish me for being alive and well in front of you?”

“You’re not... well.”

“The hell I’m not.”

“Dean, you’ve been sucking down God knows what from me for years....”

“And it hasn’t killed me yet.”

“So that’s your benchmark? Not dead yet, not dead yet? That’s it? Do you know how fucked up that is?”

“Well, s’true.”

“You expect me to be okay with that.” It was a statement and not a question.

“Yeah.” Dean shrugged. “Look. I know I took a risk, but you asked me--”

Sam slammed his fist down on the table, his eyes bright with unshed tears. “Don’t you know I know that? This is all my fault. Who knows what that shit’s been doing to you all this time... and I just... I can’t just _let_ you kill yourself for me. I can’t do it. If you see a problem with that, well, I don’t know what the hell to tell you.”

“Sammy, this is my one job. This is what I’m here for.”

“You’re no good to me dead! Don’t you understand that even a little? Don’t you know I’d follow you?”

Dean blinked and looked away. “You can’t, Sammy, you can’t die.”

“But you can. And it wouldn’t make a difference to me--right? That’s how you think of yourse-- No. I just... I can’t deal with that, Dean, that is just... So wrong I can’t...” Sam rubbed at his eyes, something between a whimper and a sob escaping his throat. “I can’t talk about this right now. I just... can’t.”

And just like that, silence fell again.

*~*~*

Sam really hated Mondays in this town. Mondays meant seeing Carlos Menendez moving gingerly through the crowd at the bus stop, flinching back from contact with the other kids. On this particular Monday the boy sported a black eye so dark it was alarming even to him; he pushed away thoughts of the sunken look around Dean’s own eyes.

He sidled up beside Carlos and gave him a smile. “Hey,” he said. 

“Hey,” Carlos said and quirked his lips in what was more of a grimace than anything.

He stuck to Carlos like glue, getting onto the bus right after him and taking a seat beside him. He took note of the kids passing by, some seemingly amused, while others seemed to share his own sense of horror at the audacity of whoever was doing this to a thirteen-year-old kid.

He watched as Greg Martin passed by and jeered openly at Carlos. His hands itched to do something, anything, to pull that smirk from Greg’s lips.

“You ever think of joining the Mathletes?” he asked instead, hoping to draw Carlos into a conversation about anything that wasn’t his ruined face or how much half of the kids on the bus needed to be taught a lesson in civility.

“Dad wouldn’t let me,” Carlos said automatically, shrinking a little and Sam bristled.

“Yeah. Mine probably wouldn’t either.”

So much for the idea of safety in conversation.

This particular Monday didn’t get interesting until they were headed home. Sam followed a gut instinct and stopped by the nurse’s office at the end of last period. He found Carlos there, small and still oozing fear when Sam approached him with a smile and said, “Wanna walk home with me?”

Relief was clear on Carlos’ face as they lit out of the nurse’s office and headed out along the bus route.

Sam never would have suggested it if he thought the other boys would have the same idea.

They were crossing the street at Pine when they heard whoops of laughter coming from behind them and then suddenly Greg Martin was up in their faces, confidence radiating off of his beefy frame. Greg turned to Carlos and dialed up his sneer. “You sure look pretty today,” he said. “Doesn’t he?” Dennis Hafner and Jeffrey Lucas were right behind him, the three of them like slobbering dogs about to light into a good meal.

His hand went to his pocket before he could think about it, protectiveness filling him as he gripped the butterfly knife hidden there, tight enough that his hand hurt.

“Leave him alone,” he growled.

“Why should we?” Greg asked.

“Give us a good reason, Winchester.”

 

The next thing Sam knew, Greg threw a punch, and he was ducking away from it with practiced ease. That only ratcheted up the tension in the air, as Dennis and Jeffrey threw themselves into the fight. He ducked two more punches. He spun and dropped away from punch after punch. Finally one landed in his gut, Jeffrey temporarily knocking the wind from him. He tried to drop into a crouch, but he stumbled as he struggled for a breath, and the next punch caught him in the jaw. He felt skin splitting and cursed to himself.

He pulled the knife from his pocket, anger coursing through him, and he brandished its sharpened blade in Greg’s face. Greg moved back instinctively, at the same time that Dennis moved forward with a stunned _fuck, Winchester_... Everything from the last few days with Dean came rushing through his mind til all he saw was red. He swung with the knife, a bright stripe of red splitting Dennis’ cheek, and then another, and the tension began to ease out of Sam. He lost his footing again just long enough to catch another punch in the gut from Jeffrey. He caught his balance and swung with the knife again, this time catching Jeffrey in the face before they all moved back almost as one.

“There’s your reason,” Sam growled, watching them back away as one, waiting for them to be a safe distance away before he pocketed the knife again.

“Holy shit,” he heard from behind him, and then Carlos took off running in the direction of his house.

Sam really hated Mondays in this town.

*~*~*

“Nice face you got on ya,” Dean said, grinning at him, as soon as he hit the door. “I bet you kicked some serious ass. Tell me you screwed somebody up good. Tell me they ate your dust.”

“Yeah, I guess so... I scared Carlos.”

“The little guy? Again?”

“With the permanent bruises, yep.” 

“Goddamn. Wish I’da seen it. Nobody caught you, right? It wasn’t on school grounds....”

“I’d never pull a knife on school property, Dean.”

“I know, just... Damn. I hope you made those fuckers run.”

“Oh, yeah. They ran hard.”

“They’re gonna wish they never heard the name Winchester by the time I’m through with them,” Dean said.

“Dean, don’t--”

“We gotta make sure they don’t spill their guts, right? And we gotta make sure they never go for Carlos again.”

His shoulders slumped, but he nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Fuckers won’t ever walk home again,” Dean said proudly.

Dean touched Sam’s cheek. “You need some stitches, kid, you got busted up good.” Dean went to the kitchen cabinets and brought out the first aid kit.

He felt a sudden rush of pride that came from outside of him. He blinked up at Dean, who was smiling widely as he prepped the sutures. 

Dean sat down beside him at the kitchen table and started to stitch. Sam tentatively reached for the bond and found a slow leak near the front of his shield, saw the rush of emotions from Dean as the usual beautiful golden color of the power.

Suddenly he could breathe again, a weight lifted from his chest. “Dean, man, I’m sorry about what I said,” he finally said. “About Dad being right. It’s... I’ve been so nuts lately. I never would have pulled that knife if we weren’t figh--”

 

Dean held up a hand in the universal sign for stop, shaking his head. “You did fine, Sammy. Don’t worry about us. We’re okay.”

He wasn’t sure if he believed Dean, but he really, really wanted to, so he mustered a tiny smile, drinking in the beautiful golden light. “Okay. But Dean, I meant everything else I said. You have to take care of you. You’ve got to promise me you’ll be safe. Can you promise me that?”

“Right now?”

“Yeah, of course right now. Anything could happen. Come on, please?”

“Look, Sammy, it’s... complicated.”

Sam froze where he was sitting, all the good will of the last few minutes forgotten, leaving him cold and empty.


	18. Book 2: Sloppy Joes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys share dinner, and a few words.

THEN

_Dean touched Sam’s cheek. “You need some stitches, kid, you got busted up good.” Dean went to the kitchen cabinets and brought out the first aid kit._

_He felt a sudden rush of pride that came from outside of him. He blinked up at Dean, who was smiling widely as he prepped the sutures._

_Dean sat down beside him at the kitchen table and started to stitch. Sam tentatively reached for the bond and found a slow leak near the front of his shield, saw the rush of emotions from Dean as the usual beautiful golden color of the power._

_Suddenly he could breathe again, a weight lifted from his chest. “Dean, man, I’m sorry about what I said,” he finally said. “About Dad being right. It’s... I’ve been so nuts lately. I never would have pulled that knife if we weren’t figh--”_

_Dean held up a hand in the universal sign for stop, shaking his head. “You did fine, Sammy. Don’t worry about us. We’re okay.”_

_He wasn’t sure if he believed Dean, but he really, really wanted to, so he mustered a tiny smile, drinking in the beautiful golden light. “Okay. But Dean, I meant everything else I said. You have to take care of you. You’ve got to promise me you’ll be safe. Can you promise me that?”_

_“Right now?”_

_“Yeah, of course right now. Anything could happen. Come on, please?”_

_“Look, Sammy, it’s... complicated.”_

_Sam froze where he was sitting, all the good will of the last few minutes forgotten, leaving him cold and empty._

__

NOW

“Look, Sammy, it’s... complicated.”

Sam blew out a breath. He forced himself to push away the cold dread in his gut and looked his brother in the eye. “Fine. Look. I just... I want you to be okay. I know you aren’t getting that. I know you think I’m the one who has to be protected. But I need-- Fuck it. I need you just as much as you need me, okay? Do you get that much?”

Dean opened his mouth and closed it again with a snap.

“And I’m kind of going quietly crazy, here, so just... look.”

Sam ripped down his shield, sheathing every single knife and letting the flow of emotions out of its cage. He poured every ounce of love, every ounce of joy, of companionship and goodness that he could muster up when he thought of his brother. He hurled it with all the force he had at Dean’s shield. Dean blinked and sat back.

“That’s how you feel about me too. Isn’t it?” he asked.

“Yeah, Sammy, ‘course it is.”

“Well, then, it’s mutual, and I need you to be okay. Do you hear me now?”

“Yeah. I do.”

“Good. Thank you. Listen, it really has been... not good. Without you. I hate fighting.”

“Mm. Yeah.”

“And I know you scared the shit out of me in the room but I’ve been thinking. Your power... The power of the bond, it’s not like the yellow-eyed man’s power at all. His is so _foul_ , it’s like mustard gas or--”

“Wait a second. Back up. The yellow-eyed demon?”

“What?”

“You’ve been seeing the yellow-eyed demon and you didn’t tell me?”

“Demon? How do you know it’s a demon? What the hell is...”

“He told me. Sam did. When the hell were you gonna own up to this? Were you gonna tell Dad? What the fuck, Sam, I need to know these things so I can--”

“It was my last dream. He filled the whole place with his noxious...whatever. It’s nothing like yours. I swear.”

“And you weren’t going to tell me. Who knows what he could have done to you!”

“Can you focus on what I’m trying to tell you _now_? I mean maybe we should even tell Dad. That it maybe came from him, the yellow-eyed whatever he is, but it’s not the same. It’s yours. Ours. Whichever.”

“Exactly. So you don’t have to be afraid for me, kiddo. We’ve been okay, and we’re gonna keep being okay.”

Sam sighed. “You scared the shit out of me, Dean, you really did. I almost lost you in there.”

“But I’m right here.”

“Can we keep our shields down?” Sam asked.

“On two conditions.”

“Yeah?”

“You tell me everything that happened in that goddamn dream. And then you call Dad, and you tell him.”

“Can’t it wait til he’s home? He’s gonna have a fit over it.”

“All the better to let him freak out from afar.” Dean smiled wryly.

“Okay, good point. You have a deal.”

He felt the moment when Dean’s shield came down and the flow of emotions between them started anew. Love. Hope. Relief. And a little fear. He let the emotions wash over him like a balm, even leaning in closer to Dean as the flow normalized, roaring rapids of emotion calming as the bond equalized.

*~*~*

In the end, the truth poured out of Sam in one quick rush. His eyes were moist and his hands were shaking as he spoke.

“He said I took you out of the game. He said you’d never recover from this. Why do you think I’ve been so scared?”

Dean shook his head a little. “Okay. Okay, Sammy, but I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

“What if you can’t hunt anymore?”

Dean blinked. “Well... then I can’t hunt. I’ll live. I’ve lived with that before.”

“We need to get you to a doctor or so--”

“No. No way. Dad’s never going to go for that. _I’m_ not gonna go for that.”

“So you wanna just end up losing it on a hunt and coming back dead?”

“That’s not gonna happen. I feel fine, okay? And we already know this thing lies. Remember the last time?”

Sam shuddered, hard and fast. “Yeah. ‘Course I do.”

“So we are not gonna freak out about this. Right?” He pushed a little of his confidence Sam’s way, watched it wash over him. Sam’s breathing evened out and he wiped at his eyes and nodded.

“Do I really have to call Dad?”

He sighed. “Do you want me to handle it?” he asked.

“Not like that. Maybe just... I’ll talk to him after you. Okay?”

“Yeah. That’s fine. I’ll... yeah. I’ll talk first.”

“Thank you.” The rush of love and relief from Sammy reminded Dean just how young Sam really was.

“No problem, Sammy. You’ve got enough to handle with that motherfucker making inroads in your head.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Trust me. You do. One day we’re going to ice this guy. One day real soon now.”

Sam offered a small smile and watched him start to dial Dad’s number.

*~*~*

“When the hell did this happen? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Dad growled into the phone.

“Because he just told me. Look, I had him blocked, it was really stupid... You saw how we got. This one’s on me, Dad, not Sammy.”

Dad lowered his voice. “So you need to not do that again.”

“I know. I’m sorry, sir.”

“I don’t like leaning on this mojo, and you know that.”

“I do.”

“But if it’s a matter of catching the son-of-a-bitch then that’s what we’ve gotta do. We gotta use what we got, son. No matter what.”

“I know, sir. We will. Do you want to talk to him now?”

He could practically hear the wheels turning in Dad’s head as he considered. “He’s all right, isn’t he?” Sam’s eyes snapped up, trained on the phone.

“He’s fine. We’re good.”

“Then no. I’ll see you guys in about a week. Tell Sam I’m gonna stop at Bobby’s and see if we can’t track this piece of shit somehow.”

Something tightened in his gut and he told himself it was about groceries and the hustle they were gonna need to pull. “Okay, Dad, sure. Listen, tell Bobby you’re looking into a demon, okay?”

“Why?”

“It’s something we got. This time,” he lied easily. “Try it.”

“Will do. Bye, Dean.” The line went dead.

He hung up the phone and was smothered in sudden relief from Sam. He offered him a small smile and a shrug. “That was easy.”

“For once.”

“You want the last sandwich?” he asked.

Sam smiled.


	19. Book 2: At the Water's Edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Sam got to Stanford, he had everything he could ever want. Of course, that was then.

Sam’s eyes ached. That’s what he took away from the night, supporting Brady as they stumbled home from a bar full of kids--students--where Sam could have been winning hundreds in hustles, sidled up to one kid or another and offering a challenge with his eyes.

He remembered why he was there, instead, keeping most of his gaze on Brady while his friend knocked back the hard stuff, the burn of the whiskey obvious on his face.

Brady came back after winter break with wide eyes and a sudden unquenchable thirst for alcohol, for the quiet of a dulled mind. He punctuated his days with binges at the closest bar and purges in the dorm bathroom, mind mostly occupied by the sudden need to escape. Sam had spent weeks nursing his roommate through his near-permanent case of drunk, delivering notes from class, playing escort; supporting his weight when he was far gone enough that his legs wouldn’t really work to get him home.

Sam should have been tired--truth be told, he was exhausted, but a nervous energy was his constant companion, caffeine and a new confusion keeping him vigilant through everything.

They arrived back at the dorm after another night of Brady losing himself in a haze of whiskey. They crossed the threshold, both stumbling a little as Sam held his friend up. He let Brady go with a grunt, so that he tumbled onto his bed over the covers. The night had been long, Sam had lost count of the number of drinks he had watched go down, and he--he was done.

Maybe it was the reek of booze. Maybe it was the constant nervous thrum under his skin. What propelled him didn’t matter: he couldn’t even be in the room.

He turned on his heel and locked the door behind him, headed back outside without a second thought. Light was beginning to bleed back into the sky when he took off running, faster than he ever did on the morning drills he had never been able to stop performing, moving like he needed to shake something loose. He traveled in a jagged line, to the sea, ran hard enough that there was a shock of pain when he stopped, cresting and receding with the beat of his pulse, pain that almost sent him to his knees in front of the water. 

He could hear the timeless rush of the surf, standing there in the half-light of the coming dawn, and he stared into the grey thickness of the waves, thought about kicking his boots off and wandering into them. He breathed in time with the steady movement of the water, slowing down until he had absorbed the calm that had been waiting for him here.

And then--he reached.

_Dean?_

_Yeah, Sammy._ Sudden and strong, like maybe Dean had been waiting, maybe he had known, and Sam was faint with relief. He let the golden glow of his brother’s power flood through his veins, through him everywhere. 

_I--_ He wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. What he could say. He imagined everything flooding through his brother’s awareness, now that he had made contact. They so seldom actually needed words, but he needed to find something all the same, needed to voice this sudden wash of doubt, ache of uncertainty.

 _I thought this would be everything_ , he said, and he felt a laugh bubbling up from Dean although he didn’t need to hear it to feel the wry amusement coming off of his brother.

 _Think I built up your expectations too high?_

Sam shrugged for no one, sent his ambivalence his brother’s way on a little push of energy. _Not-- I just-- I think I’m--_

 _Lonely_. There was a pause, while Dean considered. 

_Yeah, I guess. Brady’s like...._

_Fuckin’ mess, that kid. I mean, from what I’ve seen. You wanna keep playin’ babysitter?_

_I think he’s-- I dunno. I gotta live with him, ‘least til May. Dean, um--_

_Hm?_

_You think I’m leanin’ on you too hard, man?_

Sam’s skin prickled suddenly as a flood of emotion washed over him. His chest felt heavy with a sudden tightness. All at once breathing was painful, taking nearly all of his attention. He needed to push the feelings away, before they swallowed him just like Dean’s own swelling surf. _Haven’t heard from you in months_ , Dean said, like a sudden dunk in the frigid water flowing in front of Sam.

He wanted to say, _I know_ , and _Don’t worry_ , but he knew nothing could stem the tide of his brother’s own longing, not now that Sam had threatened to pull away. 

_I just-- I think I need other people, Dean, I really think I do._

He felt his brother pull back, and he should have kept silent, shouldn’t have piled even more on his brother when he could still feel the cold, miserable reality of Dean’s disappointment, of crushing fear, of a sudden false cheer that Dean was trying--and failing--to build. _That means Brady, too. I think-- Dean, I think I’m drowning._

 _Yeah, okay_ , Dean said, and pulled back, so the flow of emotions from him to Sam receded into a thin static of next to nothing. _If you really think I can’t help you_ , he said, and that wasn’t it either, there wasn’t a question of that at all in Sam’s mind.

 _No, I..._ Sam blew out a breath. _I just wonder if I’m hiding, Dean. Because I can. You know?_

 _If you ask me..._ There was a rush of feeling, frustration and confusion nearly knocking Sam back, nearly sending him to the ground, but then it was tamped down like it hadn’t even been there a second before. _I don’t know, Sam, do what you want._ Then, lower, in a whisper he wasn’t sure if Dean knew he heard, _You always do._ Then, louder: _Just remember you decided this._

Silence descended on Sam before he had time to process that Dean had pulled away, closing the subject and stopping the flow of power between them in one terrible second. He had no idea what would happen if he reached for Dean again and the only solution was--not to reach at all. The exhaustion he was feeling redoubled, the crash of the waves roaring in his ears. He was completely present right here, and he just--he hadn’t known--or he’d forgotten--what it would be like for Dean to pull completely back, with no muted flow between them to buoy him. He hadn’t known how ever-present Dean was until now, now that he was gone. (*sniffles*)

Or maybe he had, and he just hadn’t known how desolate everything would become when Dean pulled away.

He hadn’t solved anything, he thought, and the only thing he had left to do was head back to the dorm. Without the calm, clear presence of Dean at that back of his mind, he felt like he had nowhere to go, nowhere to be at all. He looked out over the waves a final time and then he turned and walked away.


	20. Book 2: And Miles to Go (Pilot)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean finally has his brother back after two years of radio silence.

Sam is here. Sam is really here, riding shotgun, inches away.

He should be on top of the world. A part of him is, flooded with relief that sings along his bones and floats down the line between them. But he’s jittery, foot jiggling a little as the miles to Jericho speed by beneath them. The line seems open, but so quiet. Like his brother doesn’t even need it anymore. Like he doesn’t need--

He remembers Sam at the seaside, the crash of waves underscoring his words as he spoke: _I think I need other people_. Words that shouldn’t have cut him to the quick, words that any other brother could have said and meant without all the goddamn, twisted up pain that caught in his chest as he felt the shields go up.

He should have been okay. Should have been proud. Should have been _ready_.

 _I’m here, aren’t I?_ , Sam sends down the line without moving a muscle and his hands tighten on the wheel.

 _Yeah, and being a gigantic bitch about it_ , he sends back.

_Dean, you can’t just expect to barge in and--_

Everything tightens inside of him, so that he’s holding his breath, holding himself stiffly on his side of the bench seat.

 _Look, I’m sorry this is hard, but I have a life now and I’m trying to live it. And--_ Sam takes a deep breath. He feels Sam shift closer on the seat, stealing the next words he was going to say out of the ether before he can consciously send them. Sam’s answer is soft, slow and deliberate. _I didn’t leave you behind._ Sam pauses, like he’s trying to wait for the words to sink in. _I’m right here._


	21. Book 2: Dreamscapes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of the two of them, Sam is the one with near-constant nightmares. He’s the one with a reason for near-constant nightmares. Right?

Suddenly, Dean is not doing well.

Really not doing well.

Which, okay. Of the two of them, Sam is the one with near-constant nightmares. He’s the one with a _reason_ for near-constant nightmares.

Right?

But first of all, Sam is refusing to talk about it. Second, Dean just doesn’t talk that much, period. They have their reasons. If he thought about it, Dean would probably say he never really got the hang of speech back after the six months he spent totally silent as a kid.

So they don’t talk about it. But Dean knows about them. Oh, he knows. He knows about fire that blisters the walls, threatens to overtake Sam, burning him up in the land of Nod. 

Sam comes close to dying every night.

Excuse Dean for taking issue with this unfortunate turn of events.

Dean hasn’t spent the whole of his life waking Sam out of vicious nightmares for nothing. He knows when Sam is dreaming and, when he cares to, he can find out what they’re about for himself. So he sees them. Every night.

Sam knows as much, too, and Dean knows he knows.

And so it goes. No need to talk about it, because Dean can see for himself.

Sam dreams of fire, and Dean?

Dean dreams of Sam dying. 

It starts with the fire, of course. For a week straight, Dean is pretty sure he shares Sam’s nightmare. He dreams of Sam trying, trying so hard to stay, dreams of his brother fighting him, refusing to be pulled to safety. And he watches Sam burn.

He wakes gasping and sweating and terrified, and hears Sam gasp in the bed across from him and knows it must be true. They’re sharing dreams again.

But after that, Dean’s mind gets creative. He remembers Sam. Near to dying. He remembers every time. And he dreams them. 

The poltergeist who dumped pretty much a room full of furniture on his brother.

The ghost who had gotten Sam in a choke-hold. Again. (That one repeats with stunning regularity. Every few days. In perfect chronological order.)

The werewolf who had clawed Sam’s chest open, as if it was ready to rip his still-beating heart right out of his chest.

Sam being dragged into Lake Superior by a wraith in the dead of winter. Dean had just lost sight of him for a second, and then suddenly his mind was blank, there was no golden glow of _Sam_ in the back of it at all, and he and Dad had both jumped in, desperate. To this day he doesn’t really remember the specifics of how they found him, who had dragged who from the frigid water. His brother had been dying and Dean was pretty busy with feeling the whole thing, all Sam’s terror and struggling and the terrible moments of not being able to breathe.

Mostly Dean remembers being useless.

He dreams of the past, every single possible way Sam could have gone, almost did.

He almost wishes for dreams of the fire back. Those, he can shake off. He knows how that one went. He pulled Sam to safety. He had done his one job. He hadn’t let Sam die in there, even if he knows like breathing that sometimes Sam wishes that he had.

 _We’ve got work to do_ , Sam said that night, and they’ve been doing the work, but Sam is pushy, impatient with the civvies. He’s got two goals and neither of them are being reached all that fast. It drives Sam bat-shit, and Dean is just waiting for the day he snaps, freaks out at an innocent bystander for _just being there_ , being haunted, or cursed when Sam could be hunting what he really wants--needs--to. 

It’s a good thing Sam is soft and gooey on the inside, maybe with a couple psych courses under his belt because Dean is pretty sure that’s what keeps his brother from a freak-out as the leads go colder and deader every day.

Soon enough they dream of the fire again, waking in tandem, breathing harsh in the dark, and Dean wonders why in hell he thought these would be easier. Maybe because they share them, right down to the moment that they wake up, and so Dean knows they both will, every time.

In the others it isn’t so clear-cut. He can never remember the endings, too caught up in the moments, in feeling Sam’s life so precarious under his hands, a failing pulse and uneven breath and Dean never, never understanding _how_ Sam makes it through. So many close calls, so many near misses that it defies logic. 

Dean is pretty sure he’s had his fair share, but he tries not to wonder if they haunt Sam.

Sam is haunted enough for the both of them. He knows. He knows.

So Dean takes the dreams, he takes them as part of him like they’ve always been and Sam doesn’t ask, doesn’t pry, and that’s all right because if he even starts talking about it he will undoubtedly fall apart like a house of goddamn cards, because these aren’t like the ones when they were kids, the ones he could do anything about. These are Dean’s and only sometimes Sam’s and if Sam could help with them, well, Dean doesn’t ask. And you get what you ask for, right?

He lets Sam have his private grief--as private as it can get when you’re Sam and Dean Winchester, anyway. Which isn’t very private at all.

Until it happens. It actually fucking happens. Dean dreams, over-bright, of a town with a bell that rings and rings, empty and desolate except for Sam, Sam who is running to him and calling his name and just--drops. And Dean is waiting, waiting as he gets his arms around Sam, as he feels the blood running over his hands, he is waiting for the miracle that always follows two steps behind his brother, but it doesn’t come. 

It doesn’t come.

And Dean lives it all, every bright, terrible second, feels the thready pulse come to a stop, feels the exact moment when air stops moving in Sam’s lungs, feels Sam’s terror in the last moment and then feels it abruptly cut off into nothing. 

And that’s when Dean screams. A scream that erupts from him in his sleep and follows him into waking. In the next room, someone thumps on the wall and Dean pours all his terror and grief and misery into thumping back, downright punches the fucking wall, more than once, and he looks for Sam, he looks, but Sam is nowhere, probably getting coffee but Dean chokes and barks out a sudden sob because it was too real it was (it was real it was real it was real) too much for a dream, it was too much, and he needs _Sam_ , needs him like air, and he scrambles for his cell phone, prepares to call over and over and over until Sam fucking _answers_. But Sam answers on the first ring and his voice is grim, harsh in Dean’s ear.

 _Nightmare, huh?_ and Dean is caught on _thank fuck, thank fuck, thank fuck_ and he knows his breathing is harsh, uneven, a sob caught in his throat that never finds its way out, and he thinks _thank God you know, you can always tell_ and Sam laughs without humor and then so does Dean, relief flooding him.

 _I had one too. Not the same_.

Dean nods at no one and thinks, _Get back here_.

Sam replies without words, _Coming._ and he can hear Sam breathing, can feel him bright and strong in the back of his mind. He works on his own breathing, focuses (inhale: one two three, exhale: one two three) and he will calm down, he will.

He just needs Sam, strong and bright and in his field of vision.

He just needs Sam.


	22. Book 2: Beneath the Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam almost loses Dean. Again. (Spoilers/Episodic for 1.06 - Skin)

Sam drove.

Dean was settled on the other side of the bench seat, curled up nearly on his side with his head tilted against the window, sleeping hard.

There was rope burn on his wrists and ankles, raw spots all along his stomach, back and shoulders and all Sam could do was hope his brother wasn’t jostled too much while he floored it to get out of there. They left St. Louis behind hours ago but Sam couldn’t ease up on the gas, not yet.

He drove as fast as he dared, one hand lightly gripping Dean’s knee. His grip had tightened and loosened a few times as the miles spread out beneath them and disappeared, but Sam never let go.

_How often does a guy get to see his own funeral?_

He had huffed out a laugh, dry in his throat so he almost choked on it, and then just waited for Dean to fall asleep despite the pain of his injuries.

He sent little pings of energy down the bond, little messages of peace that he forced out of his own thoughts and down into his brother’s half of the line. Golden strands like he had learned to make, to mirror Dean’s own soothing color. _Got you. Finally got you. So sorry._

He was supposed to be relieved. Supposed to be focused on how the thing wearing Dean’s skin would throw off the FBI, keep them without a tail or a rap sheet of real and imagined crimes. But he couldn’t think of that. All that he could remember was Dean with the stench of the sewer on his skin, Dean who hadn’t been his brother at all.

He had known within less than five minutes, of course. Dean without the bond just _wasn’t Dean_ , but the absence of his brother’s golden light was like a punch to the gut, bringing up memories of every fight, every time they hadn’t stood together as a unifying front. Every time they had decided to tuck the power away. Every long, long day and night when they were further apart than they’d ever been.

In the next moment he had straightened to his full height where he stood and sent feelers from himself to his brother, found a weak, stuttering golden light still thrumming from somewhere down below. The thing that was not his brother caught the Impala’s keys with the wrong hand and in the next moment Sam had unsheathed his knife and advanced on him, growling, “You _are not_ him.”

 _Hold on, Dean_ , he sent, feeling the energy sink into the pavement and down and down, placing his brother in the creature’s lair beneath their feet. He moved with absolute certainty. His legs pumped with a desperate quickness and he slammed the monster up against a chain-link fence, held his knife in its face. Sam slashed at the creature’s face with the silver knife, knowing it would do nothing but give the creature pain, maybe slow it down. He stuck it in the gut then, twisted the knife one-eighty degrees, then back, then one-eighty in the other direction. The creature fell forward, panting, its foul breath raising the hair on his arms and the back of his neck. He slammed the creature back into a standing position against the fence and pulled his gun.

Two shots fired and then there was only Dean, golden light and three beautiful words: _Sammy, you there?_

Now he had Dean back, and they both stunk of sewer water and human gristle, hadn’t had time to do more than wipe the worst away on the laundry in one army duffel in the back seat of the car--so that now even Dean’s car would hold the stink. They just needed to get away, needed space between them and the crazed crimes of the shifter.

Sam needed space away from him and whatever would pass for a funeral for the brother he had very nearly lost tonight.

Again.

Not that he was keeping score.

Dean hadn’t said anything one way or another, had just fumbled his way into the car and breathed harsh when his fresh injuries met the leather of the bench seat. Sam concentrated on the relief that flooded through the bond from the moment he had found Dean until his brother had finally drifted away. He took that sweet feeling, held it close and hoped that it would be enough.

But he never let go of Dean. Not for a second.


	23. Book 2: Secrets Spill Forth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam learns some things about his brother and he and Dean go on a hunt and deliver some good old-fashioned payback. (Something Wicked)

They both knew there was something missing, something _they_ were missing about Fitchburg, Wisconsin. Sam had looked everywhere, exhausted every Internet search he could think of, checked every newspaper database he could get his hands into; in short, he did everything he knew to do, and well at that.

There was something Dean wasn’t saying, either, and he’d locked it down tight, whatever it was. Dean drove like a bat out of hell, quiet as ever, only Sam was used to getting pings by now, little bubbles of _Dean_ leaking out with bursts of the power along the channel between them.

Sam was used to the quiet, but not the secrecy. They didn’t need secrets between them--hadn’t needed them.

“If Dad’s sending us coordinates... we haul ass,” Dean said.

“Who _are_ you and what have you done with my lovable freak of a brother?”

“I’m telling you, Sammy, something’s there.”

“Yeah. Something you don’t want me to know about.”

(brief flicker of anger, pulled back; frustration, fear, shame.)

Shame. Pulled back but leaking through despite Dean’s best efforts. His hand was white-knuckled around the gear shift and he was shifting with little jabbing motions. He rolled his eyes. “You’re a real smart-ass, you know that?”

“Only when I have to be,” Sam said.

“College boy thinks he’s so smart.”

The jab went deep. They hadn’t talked about school, about Jess, about the day Sam called Dean with his voice ruined, pulled himself back into Dean’s orbit with a “Come and get me. I’m dreaming again. It’s bad.”

“We don’t know it’s that kind of dream, do we, Sammy?” Dean had hedged, and Sam had realized that in those moments the bond was quiet, too quiet. 

“Cut the crap,” Sam had said, forceful and biting. “I know you’re dreaming it too. She _burns_ , Dean. It’s like... It’s like what you’ve said-- like you’ve felt-- About Mom.” 

Dean had hung up the phone, closing the subject in the next instant, but Sam felt a tug, saw an image of the Impala over smooth highway, like Dean coming closer at a steady clip and then, two days later, he came crawling through the window of Sam’s dorm room. Fierce love radiated down the bond, and frustration. They left quietly, a note penned for Jess slipped under her own dorm room door, and all Dean could say was, “I wanted you to be okay. Wanted you to be a doctor like we always said--” 

“Yeah, well, not with her life at stake. Not with lives at stake.”

Chin-jerk nod, and they were finished, driving away listening to KFOX Classic Rock until the signal faded out and Sam started to breathe a little easier.

After that, the dreams had stopped and the hunting began, and they’d never looked back, fell back into pattern and just let it be what it was. Sam was a Winchester and that was all.

Until they crossed into Wisconsin and Dean hurled the words at Sam to wound.

“Fuck you, Dean,” Sam said. “Just...fuck you.”

Dean glanced over and shrugged. “There’s something in Fitchburg,” he said, and stony silence settled between them. The bond was quiet, Dean’s walls up thick, but Sam was too pissed off to probe down the line.

They cased the town in the same stony silence until Dean saw something on a windowsill and his heart sped up in his chest, pulses of dread down the bond, dread and old hurt, like a scab picked and bleeding fresh.

“What?” Sam asked, stopping where he stood, watching close. Dean pointed to the hand-print and everything let loose in a torrent, flooding the bond.

(not again sorry stupid sorry worthless mistake striga mistake fuck mistake Jesus Christ it’s back stupid mistake sammy jesus)

Sam stumbled back a step. “Jesus Christ, Dean. What _happened_ here?”

Dean’s hand went to his forehead and he shook his head. “Fort Douglas. Fuck, Sammy. Fuck. I fucked up.”

“When? When was this?”

“Don’t even... I was maybe eight, Dad left me with you and it was a big deal because you know how he gets sometimes.”

 _Yeah. Sometimes_ , Sam thought. Anger flared down the line, from him to Dean this time, and Sam nodded tightly.

“Anyway I just... I knew it was dangerous, really knew it was but he was gone and all I was doing was watching your stupid cartoons, in this totally crap room for three days and I just wanted some _air_ but I got into this video game...”

 

“Okay....”

“I knew how bad it could be, I think it spooked me, ‘cause the bond...” He sent a memory floating from him and into Sam, an endless bitter cold wind, so loud, and on the end of it something like a long, high scream.

“Jesus,” Sam leaned away from Dean and slammed up his own protective wall against what was coming at him through the line.

Dean was barely paying him any mind, clearly lost in his own little world as he continued. “It was like a freaking wind tunnel and these voices and I knew something was coming. I don’t know why I didn’t just smother the fuck out of you but I think I was just...”

“Being a kid. A kid who was scared out of his mind.“

Dean scoffed. “Good for me. Anyway, you were asleep and I thought if I fell asleep we might dream again and I didn’t want to sleep. I’d have done anything to stop it. I wanted people around me, like the _fucking_ bartender guy, not just you...”

Shame and anger blasted out of Dean so fast and thick they started to trickle in past Sam’s shield.

“It wasn’t your fault, Dean.” Sam reached out and touched his arm briefly.

“Yeah, well, and you almost died, I mean really, it was Dad coming back that saved you, and I-- I had the bond, he didn’t, and if he hadn’t second guessed himself about leaving me there with you....”

“Fuck, Dean, Jesus fuck.”

“Yeah, pretty much.” Another burst of shame hit Sam squarely between the eyes and Sam sighed.

“You were a kid. It’s okay now. I mean.”

“Six kids in the hospital, Sammy.”

“It’ll be okay. We’ll make it okay.”

The bond remained quiet, all but a lingering ache that radiated between them, and then--

_Jesus, Dean, I had no idea. We’ll get the bastard._

_Have to, Sammy._

_We will._

Sam felt the steady flow of fear and love seeping out of Dean, determination working its way into the mix as he sat quietly in thought. It built and built until finally Dean cracked a half-smile.

_Together._

“Like always,” Sam said aloud, pointedly, and Dean’s smile grew.

 _Glad you’re here._ Love swelled from Dean’s heart and filled the air between them til Sam was so full of it there wasn’t any room for thought in his head. Then Dean tamped it down to a dull roar and muttered, “Striga. It’s a striga. Ready?”

“Mm. Let’s get the hell out of here first, you look like you’ve just been punched in the gut.”

 

Dean just nodded, and they left the little girl’s house and went back to the Impala. They sat inside and once Sam was settled Dean sent everything he knew rushing forward in neat little packets of power.

Sam felt a tingle in his forehead and images flashed before his mind’s eye. _John showing Dean the photo of a hand-print. Telling Dean this was serious, so he needed to be careful with Sammy. Loading up the guns with consecrated iron rounds. An article sitting on the table with six words written in John’s scrawl: vulnerable when feeding. Feeds on children._

“That was better than the Internet. You know that, right?” Sam said and huffed out a laugh, but he sobered when he saw the look on Dean’s face.

“Wish it wasn’t,” Dean said. “Not this time.”

“I know.”

They pulled up to the nearest motel and Dean sent a fresh wave of dread down the bond as he looked at the two boys, one pouring milk for the other in an open kitchen behind their mother’s frame.

_Might come here. Kids._

_We’ll keep a close eye. Maybe--_

Dean slipped the credit card back into his wallet and flashed the mother a million dollar smile, sending Sam the equivalent of a giant question mark through the bond.

 _Maybe it’s a good thing. Maybe we can track--_

Dean stiffened in place, glad the woman was turned away. He snapped up the keys to the room and Sam could tell from the spike of anger down the bond that he was about thirty seconds from tossing them at Sam’s head.

“What are you, nuts?” Dean exploded when they were back outside. “You want this thing to get these kids?”

“That’s not what I said, and you know it!”

“Man, you’ve always been half-cocked with Dad but this is bullshit, this is other people’s lives we’re talking about.” Dean kicked at a rock, gripping the keys to their room tight in his fist and staring at Sam

“I-- I just want to do the hunt, okay, Jesus.” _Calm down. Please._ Sam sent images of calm, cool water, him and Dean smiling, calm and collected.

“I want this thing _dead_ ,” Dean growled.

“And it will be, we just have to stick to the hunt, follow every lead we’ve got. We’ll watch the kids, okay? They won’t get hurt. They’re probably the safest two kids in the whole town. They’ve got you and me.”

Dean deflated, nodding. “Okay. Yeah.”

“I mean we could try to be the bait--”

Dean shook his head. “No. Won’t work. This thing knows its stuff. It’d get close enough and see us.”

_This is screwed up. Even for us._

“You’re telling me,” Dean continued out loud. “You’re the one itching for the sonofabitch to mack on a kid so we can catch it.” The words had no more heat in them, though. “But you’re right. This is the way it’s gonna have to go down.”

*~*~*

They were coming back from the hospital and Sam was laughing his ass off at just how dead Dean’s theory about the old woman had turned out to be: “I was sleeping with my peepers open,” he crowed. But he went quiet and still when they both spotted Michael looking utterly dejected. Dean went over and crouched beside him and Sam hung back by the car

“Asher has pneumonia,” Michael said.

“The little guy?”

“I should have made sure the window was latched. He wouldn’t have gotten pneumonia if the window was latched.”

“Hey. Listen to me. I can promise you .this is not your fault,” Dean said, earnest and certain.

_Or yours._

Dean didn’t turn to glance back at Sam. _That’s not up for discussion. Give me a minute, will you?_ he snapped back.

“I’m the one who’s supposed to take care of him. I’m his big brother.”

“I’m a big brother too. It doesn’t make you responsible for everything,” Dean said. “But listen, we gotta talk. Want to go inside?”

Once inside, Dean took a deep breath, standing shoulder to shoulder with Sam and he asked, “Did you see anything last night?”

“I was having a nightmare.”

“I’d give anything not to tell you this, but sometimes nightmares are real. Monsters are real.,” Dean said. “So I gotta ask again. Did you see anything last night? Something in a long cloak?”

Michael reached for the phone, eyeing them with suspicion, but he didn’t pick it up. “Yeah,” he said.

“I know this thing. It went for my little brother once, too.”

“You guys are crazy,” Michael said without any heat behind the words.

“But you saw it.”

“Yeah.”

“Where’s your room?” Dean asked. “Can we see it?”

Michael looked warily between the two of them and then nodded. They followed him and once inside Dean went right for the windowsill. “Look,” he said. 

Michael came right up behind him and then stepped back when he saw the handprint. “What do we do?” he asked.

“You’d do anything for your little brother, right?”

“Yeah.”

Dean laid it on the line. “Now that it knows you’re here, it’s going to come back,” Dean said. “It’s going through siblings, and it’s going to want you next. We can set you up as the bait, and we’ll be right there.”

“What? No!”

“It’s going to come back either way,” Sam said. “We don’t really have a choice.

Michael looked like he was about to run. He sat down on his bed, shaking a little. “Go. Just go.”

They went back to their room and Dean started pacing. _So that went well. So much for your plan, Sam._

_We don’t have a choice._

Dean laughed, a dry, humorless laugh. “Yeah, well.”

A knock came on the door, and Sam opened it to reveal Michael on the other side.

“This thing came for your little brother?” Michael asked without preamble.

“It did,” Dean said.

“And you’d really do anything for him? Like me?”

“Yeah. I would. Anything.”

Michael nodded. “Me too. I’ll do it.” He offered a small half-smile Dean’s way. “What do we do?”

They set up the cameras in Michael’s room and the room next door. Dean loaded the guns with the iron rounds and set them down on one of the beds. “Have you ever heard a gun go off?” Dean asked.

“In the movies.”

“It’s a lot louder than in the movies.”

“Just don’t shoot me.”

“I won’t.”

And Dean kept his word.. 

When the moment finally came, Michael rolled easily onto the floor and under the bed, If he had been able to see them, he would find two men shooting in tandem, movements in sync. Bullets flew over Michael’s head, six of them finding their mark inside the creature, who let out a long low whine and fell to the carpet with a final whump.

Five of the bullets were Dean’s.

“All clear,” Dean called, and flooded the bond silently.

(relief love relief safe it worked i got the bastard shot him dead it’s gone.)

_Told you. This one is your win._

_It was your plan._

_My totally crazy plan. Wouldn’t have worked without you._

They stayed long enough to check on the kids. Asher had turned the corner in the middle of the night and his mother came back all smiles, relief coming off of her in waves.

Dean made the call to Dad, filling his voicemail box with another message they weren’t sure he would get. “I got the striga, Dad. Six bullets in the chest. I got him good.”

It was a good thing that Dean was used to radio silence, because that was all he got in return.


	24. Book 2: Push and Pull

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Look... I don't expect to make it out of this fight in one piece. Your mother's death - it almost killed me. I can't watch my children die, too. I won't." - John, Dead Man's Blood

hn sat in the hard plastic chair beside Dean’s bed. He waited and he watched. Watched as the heavy whirs and clicks and beeps worked to sustain his son’s life because he couldn’t physically sustain himself. Not anymore.

He was so tired. So tired of fighting. He had lost the fight, finally, in the war he had been waging for twenty two goddamn years. 

It was costing his son his life, every second more precarious than the last.

He knew what the doctor had said. Dean was bleeding internally. Bleeding in his brain. If he didn’t do something drastic and fast, Dean would be lost.

Mary’s death had nearly been the death of him. He wasn’t about to watch his son die, couldn’t bear for Dean to be another casualty in a war that he was rapidly realizing was unwinable. 

Twenty-two years--nearly twenty-three--and John had nothing to show for it. But if he did this--if he did just this one thing--they would have a chance. They would have their _lives_. 

Dean would have Sam, and Sam would have Dean, and wasn’t that always how it had been? The natural order in the Winchester world.

It would be enough. The same way it had always been.

He huffed out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, and he gave Dean a chin-jerk nod. _Not long now, son. Just hold on. Just a little longer and I’ll fix this. I will. I swear._

John headed into the dregs of the building, bag of herbs and the gun held close to his chest.

 _You need to sweeten the pot_ , the bastard said, but he was ready. He told himself he was ready. He had to be.

 _Anything_ , he said, and the yellow eyes shown with malice.

*~*~*

Sam bristled with anger, flaring up to blot out the exhaustion and the abject terror. Dad was gone. He had forced Sam to leave the hospital, given Sam the list of herbs and expected him not to question what they were for--and now Dad _had_ the herbs and had disappeared.

He had no illusions about what his father was doing.

He should have been scouring the hospital, covering every inch of it to find his father. But fear won out, and the only place he could possibly go was to Dean, drawn like a moth to flame. He couldn’t leave his brother’s side, not now. Not even if he had wanted to. There was no other way. Dean would have to forgive him eventually. A wry smile found its way to Sam’s lips, and he breathed in deep. Sam made his choice. Not that it was really a choice at all.

He knew. It was as simple as that. He could swear Dean was there, was just dancing at the edges of his field of vision. If he was just quick enough, good enough, he would see Dean, he was sure of it. But he never did, not in his human form, anyway.

But there was something else. His vision had been flickering with white and yellow sparks since the crash, like a warning, like a sign. He was ready to take the signs on faith. Ready to-- to do what he had to do. 

He only hoped it would be enough.

He took a deep breath and called. _Dean. You here, man?_

His vision flashed again, sparked white-gold and pure and _Dean_. He knew it was Dean, knew he was so close, so close.

He had seen what he needed to and now--he willed it so, reached with his mind and saw in his mind’s eye as he caught up something in his grasp, silvery and soft and _Dean_.

_Got you._

He was rewarded with the largest flash yet, tinting his vision completely golden, soft-edged and glittering.

He stepped closer to the bed, hands moving protectively over his brother’s form and he pushed, tied the silvery bits off inside of Dean, settled them gently over his brother’s heart and watched with his inner vision as it grew and spread along Dean’s frame.

_Just come back. Come back to me._

He pushed with all the love he felt in the world, gentle and soft, delicately fanned the silvery piece of Dean’s essence like a flame, pushed and pulled until (together) they had settled it over Dean’s entire frame. He took Dean’s wrist in his hand, held firm but not hard, not bruising.

He felt a stutter-stop of golden light at the back of his mind, sudden certainty flooding through him.

_I got you. Just come back._

And Dean breathed, out of unison with the machine, choking, and Sam screamed for help, elated and terrified, relieved and shaking where he stood.

And so it was.


	25. Book 2: Interlude: On the Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The guys share a quiet moment on the road.

Sam watched his brother take a sip of his coffee that turned into a wince, Dean pulling back and making a bitch-face to rival even the one he sometimes saw in the mirror.

_Ow._

_Seriously?_

_Fuck off._

He allowed himself to laugh, loud and boisterous in the silence of the car.

_Shut up, Sam, your coffee had the freaking devil in it._

_Break a leg, break five ribs and you’re fine._ Fine _, you say. Burn yourself on coffee and I’m courting the devil at your expense._

_Or the devil’s courting you._

_No worries. Give it thirty seconds and your tongue’ll be numb._

_It is. And scratchy._

_You won’t be able to taste your burgers for a week._

_I_ know.

_These little earthquakes of unfairness, Dean, I don’t know how you--_

_Little what?_

_Never mind._

_What?_

_It’s a song. Never mind._

_No, wait, I think I know this one. Tell me the rest._

_You know Tori Amos?_

_Tori Amos!_ You _know Tori Amos?_

_Shut up, Dean._

Dean hummed tunelessly for a few bars, but Sam could pick up that tune anywhere. It always reminded him of Jess, of her favorite mix CD. It probably always would.

_Please stop humming._

_Oh, no. No, no, no. I know this one._

_And this begs the question, how?_

Dean grinned wide. _That’s for me to know and you to never find out, devil boy._

_You are never gonna let this go, are you?_

_Never._

_Well, then I’m glad I burned your tongue, McWhiny-Pants._

In a perfect example of the ridiculous, Dean sobered up. _I won’t taste anything for a week. Fuck you, Sam. Seriously, fuck you._

_Maybe you’ll finally eat a salad._

_Not on your life._

And so it continued, from mile marker five to mile marker twenty, and by the end Sam was fighting hard to hold in the laughter that pooled in his belly, and Sam thought: This is what life is about. Just this. Right here. And then he let himself laugh, at long last.


	26. Book 2: The Devil You Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean makes a decision

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even though it was probably prime real estate, I didn't ever write anything with ODAD!Sam and the special kids, probably because I thought it would get too bendy to try to keep everyone's powers separate. I love the special kids and did write fic with them but I think only a few scrappy one shots remain. Anyway I hope you don't mind this little "verse-y" jump here... Enter ODAD!Dean after Sam's first death... Yeah, I write horror...a lot...lol...here we go.

Dean licked his lips. They still burned, and he could still taste the blood. Blood that had dripped down the arm of the janitor— _I like this meat suit_ —in a pitch black stream, even as the sun rose and brought the colors into everything else.

 _We’ll both benefit from this, you know,_ Yellow-Eyes had said, but the words were only meant to torment him, to draw out and underline what they both knew he had no choice but to do.

He was too weak not to.

Bobby had driven away with his desperate screams still tearing through the air between them, each one nicking slices into the old man, laying their bond bare and ripping into it. He had known Bobby would have to leave, couldn’t just sit there and see him trying so hard to destroy even that in his grief.

He would have been glad, if he could feel anything. He was too numb. Sam was cold— _cold_ —in his arms as he hefted him then, carried him back into the graveyard. The sickness left in the air by the opening of the gate intensified with every step, until he stood where Sam had—where it had happened, and he knew the bastard would come. The air was still saturated with the dark power of Hell. They weren’t—he wasn’t alone.

The air thickened with heat and smoke as Yellow-Eyes stepped into view, drunk on the power allowed to him here so close to a gate to Hell. He grinned at Dean like a rabid wolf.

“I knew you’d come, soldier boy,” Yellow-Eyes said.

“Shut up and just—tell me what I have to do. Tell me.”

The bastard raised an eyebrow and laughed, low and thick with malice.

“Dean, Dean, Dean. If you weren’t so fun to play with, I might have to pick up my ball and go home,” he said. “I don’t have to bargain with the sons of _man_.” He spat the word out.

“And yet you’re here,” Dean growled back.

“We have a mutual interest.” The sheer hunger in his eyes as he looked at Sam was— Dean’s insides rolled, his hands shaking as they held Sam’s frame.

“You fucking bastard—“

Yellow-Eyes just watched him for a few long moments. Then his face cracked into a wide grin. “Yes.”

Dean wanted to lunge for him, suddenly not really caring that he was unlikely to get very far. He should be ending this motherfucker, not—not—

 _Bargaining. A stage of grief. Only a Winchester would take it quite this far._ Dean saw Bobby’s face in his mind’s eye with the words, his face the picture of disappointment.

It was true. Standing here, having a fucking conversation with the evil bastard who had ruined his and Sammy’s lives, their father’s life (fucking over, over and nothing to salvage at all, fucking god _dammit_ ), Dean knew it was true. But he was here now, for Sam, and to say that the price didn’t matter would have been the understatement of the millennium. So Dean just had to do this—finish this. He closed his eyes, worked to slow his breathing. He could do this. It was worth it. _Anything, Sammy. Anything._

Yellow-Eyes snapped his fingers. “Well. Come here, then. Time to seal the deal.”

“You gonna even tell me what—?”

Yellow-Eyes shrugged. “You’re a good soldier, Dean. We’ve known for a long time. Now you can be on the same side as little Sammy, here.”

“He’s not—“

Yellow-Eyes smiled. “He’ll follow you anywhere. Isn’t that true?”

“No—“

“Here’s the thing,” the bastard said, reaching out and grabbing his wrist, holding it at a painful angle. One little twist and it would be broken. “I’m already here. You haven’t got a choice.” He ripped into the meat suit’s wrist with its own teeth, pressed the bloody (black, black blood) flesh up to Dean’s mouth.

“For Sam,” Yellow-Eyes said, and it was true. It was true.

The blood burned all the way down Dean’s throat, like he had eaten coals, swallowed fire. He imagined his organs turning to ash inside. More and more and—more. There was no end to the flow of fire into him. The flow was-- It was as life-giving as it was harsh and miserable, awakening a thirst in him for the darkness that permeated Sammy’s aura, bound him in his dreams.

“You need more than little Sammy did,” Yellow-Eyes remarked like it was off-hand, but not a thing that bastard said would ever be, and he knew it.

_Take your brother outside and don’t look back—_

He remembered the blood, and yet he didn’t remember this, the inky blackness, the _deadness_ of it. Dean’s stomach lurched, but all he could do was swallow and swallow, swallow and burn. Still more.

Then Yellow-Eyes leaned in, slammed him up against a tree, and the janitor’s cracked, near-dead lips were on him, tongue forcing its way into his mouth. Fucking demon tongue.

“What the hell—?” He coughed and sputtered when he was allowed to surface from—that.

“Signed, sealed and delivered.” Yellow-Eyes said with a triumphant smile. “You’re mine.”

And Dean couldn’t think anymore, because the blood was running through him, it was _claiming_ him, just burning, burning and ripping through everything. He fell to the ground, the burn of demon blood inside him the only thing in his awareness. Until he realized how quiet things were, and saw Yellow-Eyes just standing there.

“We have a deal,” Dean hissed through the burning pain that was never going to end. “Do it already!”

“So you want Sam to find you here? You want him to know what you’ve done? Don’t you think our boy would be a little upset, Dean? What do you think he’ll see when he looks at you now?”

What? What was there for Sam to see? Jesus, what the fuck had he let the bastard do?

“He’s not yours! And he doesn’t have to know. He can’t know.”

Yellow-Eyes laughed. “So you don’t think he’ll be able to figure it out. Really?”

Fuck. _Fuck_. Dean couldn’t—he couldn’t leave Sam. Not now. But if Sam knew… If he was supposed to help Sam turn dark-side…. He couldn’t do that, either. He couldn’t see Sam turn into that—with or without Dean’s help. He might have drunk the goddamn blood, but he didn’t have to just roll over like a fucking dog and make it as easy as Yellow-Eyes wanted it.

Sacrifice was something that Dean knew how to do. So if it meant buying Sam some time… he’d go. Just as soon as Sam was safe. Or at least alive and breathing.

“I don’t leave until I see he’s awake, and you’re gone,” he growled.

“You don’t have to go running off by yourself, Dean. You could just come with me. I could show you around back home—“

“Very funny, fuck-face.”

Yellow-Eyes gave a slow shrug. “Fine. I’ll find you when I need to. I’ll always be able to find you. Now….” He made a shooing motion toward the edge of the cemetery. Dean walked toward the edge and behind a tree, every step away from Sammy tearing into him.

Dean watched from the shadows as Yellow-Eyes flicked his wrist and Sam’s eyes opened. The bond flared back to life, bringing Dean his sense of equilibrium back. And Sam screamed. He rolled onto his side and his arms twisted around behind him to grab at his back. Yellow-Eyes raised his eyes briefly in the direction Dean had gone, issuing a warning.

Dean couldn’t even scream.

Yellow-Eyes looked back down at Sam on the ground. “Relax, Sammy,” He turned the nickname into a sneer. “I’m making it all better.”

“What—?” Sam said, pushing the word out through the pain.

“You and Jake had a little disagreement, but you know you’re the one I want, Sam. You’ve always been my favorite.”

“Where’s Dean?”

Yellow-Eyes just laughed.

“Where _is_ he?” There was a cold dread in Sam’s voice somewhere under the insistence—like he knew he had to press but knew just as well that he didn’t want the answer, not for one second.

“Not here,” Yellow-Eyes said curtly. “Don’t _freak out_ , Sam. You’ll find him when you need to. I’ll make sure.”

Sam’s eyes went dark and deadly, but they glistened with tears, and Dean—Dean could barely watch that.

_It’s for you, Sam. Anything. Everything. Even this. You’ll see._

Dean watched as the yellow-eyed demon retreated into the trees, a blast of heat surrounding him that withered the leaves of the nearby trees. “All yours, soldier boy,” he said. “See you soon.” In the next instant he was gone.

“Sam?!” Dean bellowed, exactly like he had just arrived on the scene. Anything that would give him some cover, even if it would only last ten minutes. Or less.

“Dean! He was here!”


	27. Book 2: Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The powers converge at a cemetery in Wyoming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really do apologize for lack of transitions here because of the action not being solid. I had reasons at the time and it's harder to invent transitions now but I've done some light editing to avoid timeline confusion and such. This is a 'verse that was written in a nonlinear fashion and is now as linear as I could make it.

Dean saw the scene unfold before him in the graveyard and he went cold with dread.

Sam had found him in record time.. Now stood with Bobby and Sam while Jake said, _Do me a favor, lady_ and Dean was already imagining Ellen’s brain matter painting the tombstones. He wanted to be sick.

Jake kept talking: _Everybody put your guns down. Except you, sweetheart._

And they did. Three guns dropped to the earth. Jake turned his attention away from them, readying the colt, and they lunged forward, Bobby and Dean grabbing Ellen and Sam readying his gun.

Four shots rang out in the air and Jake fell to the earth. Sam stood over him while blood spurted from his mouth and he begged. _Please_.

Dean watched Sam shoot him three more times. He told himself he could breathe easier with the guy’s insides covering the ground.

The workings of the crypt door spun. They all took cover behind a gravestone. The door flew open. There was no stopping the flow of evil from inside the crypt now.

The air in the graveyard was hot, unnatural. Hot like-- Dean held the Colt in his hand, gripping it until his knuckles were white. If the Yellow-Eyed Demon had given this to Jake then maybe--

In the next instant he placed exactly where he had felt the air like this before.

“Howdy, boys,” came a voice from behind him. He whirled and tried to cock the gun at the demon but in the next instant it was flying from his hand. Right into _his_.

“Dean!” Sam screamed. But the demon only turned to Sam and pushed him with the power, right into the nearest tree. The demon made a twisting motion with his hand and Sam screamed, grabbing for his arm before he was stuck fast.

“I'll get to you in a minute, champ. But I'm proud of you--knew you had it in you.” He turned to Dean, freezing him in place. “Sit a spell,” he sneered. “So, Dean...I got to thank you. You see, demons can't resurrect people unless a deal is made. I know, red tape--it'll make you nuts. But thanks to you, Sammy's back in rotation.” His expression was that of a madman getting exactly what he wanted for Christmas. Dean held back a cringe. 

“Now, I wasn't counting on that, but I'm glad. I liked him better than Jake, anyhow. And you! Whatever could be coming for you, soldier boy? I’ll bet you can’t even imagine....”

“And look at what you’ve unleashed! I mean...you saw what your brother just did to Jake, right? That was pretty cold, wasn't it?” His smile was broad and his laughter made Dean shiver. “How certain are you that what you brought back, is one hundred percent,” he spoke slowly, seeming to relish the words, “pure Sam.” He grinned at Dean. 

“You of all people should know, that's what's dead, should _stay_ dead. Anyway...thanks a bunch. I knew I kept you alive for some reason. Until now, anyway. I couldn't have done it without your pathetic, self-loathing, self-destructive desire to sacrifice yourself for your family.”

The demon cocked the gun at Dean’s head, but something grabbed him from behind, and the blackness of his soul was ripped from the body of the janitor. Dean blinked, not believing what he was seeing. How--? He scrambled to his feet and was joined by Sammy a second later. He picked up the gun from the lifeless form of the demon’s vessel. Then he stood doing not much other than stare because-- _Dad?_

The blackness of the demon’s soul flew away from their father and back into the janitor’s body. Dean automatically cocked the colt, all business despite what he had just seen, what he was not going to process right now.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” the demon said.

“Yeah? Why?”

“What exactly are you going to do without me?”

“Celebrate, that’s what.”

“So when your precious little bond goes away again... you won’t be able to come and ask me what happened, will you.”

“What are you even talking about?”

“The demon giveth, and the demon taketh away, soldier boy.”

Dean shivered. He could be right. Except--

“You didn’t take anything away,” Dean said. “Sammy di--.” His breath caught in his throat, and he couldn’t even say the word. “That’s the only thing that ever took the bond away from me. It had nothing to do with you.”

“You willing to bank on it, soldier?”

And Dean was.


	28. Book 2: Of Deals and Demons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean levels with Sam about his time with the Yellow-Eyed Demon. (Azazel)

Dean took off heading south, the feel of the road under his wheels working to calm and pacify him. The familiar presence of his brother riding shotgun easily did the rest. He was breathing easier with every passing moment as the reality sank in that Sam was here, that he was alive and with him, breathing and talking--bitching about the Motorhead--and it was the most amazing thing that had ever happened to him. It was a miracle, and it was all down to that yellow-eyed bastard.

He felt a twinge in his gut that he was _not_ going to examine the origins of. Sam was here. He was here and he was okay; he had his brother back and that was all.

He pulled off the road and started driving down the main road in another Nowhere, USA, stopping the Impala in front of a sign that said: Sandwiches. Coffee. His brain pretty much stopped right there: Yes. Coffee. Now.

They piled out of the car and into the restaurant. A woman with tightly curled orange hair named Doris seated them in a booth by the window. Almost immediately, Sam picked a napkin out of the dispenser on their table and started to shred it.

Great. Dean looked around, desperate for some kind of distraction that would keep napkin-boy from heading them into feeling, sharing territory in three seconds or less.

That’s when he noticed Sam’s hand, something blotchy and wrong catching his eye. “What happened to your hand?”

“What? Oh.” Sam showed Dean his palm, self-consciously picking at the skin there. “It’s nothing, really.”

“The hell it isn’t, that’s new, isn’t it? That better not screw up your shooting. You’ve gotta have my back,” he said, trying for gruff and irritated, but Sam’s eyes met his and his younger brother smiled a little, catching the real concern that must have shown on his face.

“I think the demon did it,” Sam said, pushing up his sleeve to reveal a thick, wide scar that went from his palm all the way up his arm to the elbow. “Like a brand,” he said. “Or a burn. A burn, I guess. It’s not that big of a deal.”

Dean grimaced. It was true. In the grander scheme of things, it was small, Sam was right. Still. There it was, something else Dean hadn’t been able to spare his brother.

“Look. Dean. When Jake saw me, he acted like he’d seen a ghost.”

“Yeah, he was a weird kid.”

“He said he sliced through my spinal cord.”

“Yeah, well, he didn’t.”

“I felt what he did to my back. I woke up in that clearing and Yellow-Eyes was there and he woke me up before he healed my back. He healed me. Dean, why would he do that?”

“I have no idea, Sam.” 

“And then you showed up, but here’s the thing, I remember you holding on to me when Jake did the deed. So where did you go, Dean? Why would you leave me there where _he_ could get to me?”

“I didn’t.”

“I think you did. Something happened that you aren’t telling me. People don’t survive wounds like that. What did you do?”

Their waitress, a tall brunette with her hair pulled back from her face, interrupted briefly. Dean flashed his smile at her, greeted her with a _Hey, Miriam_ , and took his time ordering a coffee. Sam asked for water.

“What did you do?”

“Look, Sam, it was nothing.”

“Let me tell you again. I remember you were there holding on to me, and then I remember laying on the ground, alone, with the rat bastard standing over me. I felt my back knit back together. Now, that doesn’t sound to me like nothing. You’re never going to convince me it was nothing. So I am gonna ask you again. What did you do?”

Dean studied the table as he answered. “I-made-a-deal.”

“What?”

“For fuck’s sake, Sammy, you heard me. I made a deal.”

“With the yellow-eyed... Are you kidding me?”

“No.”

“So...what. You didn’t learn anything when Dad did that?”

Dean studied his hands.

Sam shifted in his seat and leaned toward Dean, and Dean felt a tickling, tingling sensation in his head, felt Sam’s presence as if he was right there on Dean’s side of the booth. His eyes were closed and his expression grim.

Then the memory of the cemetery at Cold Oak started to replay in Dean’s mind. He shuddered as he saw himself standing with the yellow-eyed demon, reliving the sensory memory of the first drops of blood hitting their mark, the liquid burn of blood on his tongue, down his throat, moving through his body unbidden.

_Signed, sealed, delivered...._

He leaned back in his seat, trying to put more distance between himself and Sam. His words came low and biting.“What the fuck, man! Get out of my head!”

Sam started to shake and his breathing came hard and rasping, his expression tightening. “Jesus,” he said from behind clenched teeth. The memory abruptly cut off, leaving them both shuddering in shared misery.

He felt eyes on him and slowly looked around. Every pair of eyes in the room was on him and Sam.

Miriam came up to their table, her lips pulled into a tight smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “You boys alright?” she asked, in a tone that said she didn’t much care what the answer was. Her eyes were hard as she scrutinized them, waiting.

“Yeah,” Sam said, forcing calm into his voice in a way that Dean couldn’t have possibly managed right then.

“Glad to hear it,” Miriam said, “I wouldn’t want you to be sick,” she said sweetly, while her eyes flashed, _Get out. Freaks._

Wonderful.

“I didn’t know... it would be like that,” Sam said low when she had walked away again. “I just wanted to see....”

 _No shit, Sherlock_ he wanted to say, but he bit back his reply as he was lost in the flood of emotions from Sam, swallowed up in anger and fear so strong he almost took a header for the floor. He gripped the table hard to stay seated in place. Jesus Christ, they were not fit to be out in public.

“I just.... How, Dean? You drank the _blood_. That’s everything that’s ever fucked me up! It’s why I’m cursed!”

A small part of him wondered at Sammy knowing about the blood. He had seen it on that first night, four years old and not really understanding but seeing nonetheless. He had accepted this as part of Sam a long time ago, but he certainly hadn’t ever said anything about it. He considered for a moment before deciding he wouldn’t say anything now, either, not about this cursedness that Sam was so hell bent on. He didn’t need that right now; he would deal with it later. Right now, their problem was the yellow-eyed bastard and what he--they--had done.

“He didn’t really give me much of a choice, Sam.”

“Sure he did. You could have let me go.”

“That’s not a choice. Not for me. I... The bond broke, Sammy. It was just--gone. What do you think that’s like? I couldn’t. I just couldn’t anymore.”

Sam blew out a breath. Dean felt him pull back, his emotions and his _presence_ shifting away, so that he couldn’t feel Sammy beside him anymore and the rush of anger-fear-pain settled to a dull roar leaking slowly from behind Sam’s shield. “Okay. It’s done. What were the terms? I didn’t see--”

“Uh.” Dean cleared his throat, but didn’t continue.

“What were they?”

Dean shrugged. “He didn’t tell me.”

“What?”

“He didn’t give me the terms.”

“And you just.... That was okay with you.”

“I told you! I was-- You were--”

Sam shook his head. “You haven’t changed in ten years!” Sorrow came fast and thick at Dean, and his brother’s eyes were wet until he steeled his features, the unshed tears drying up. Anger flared down the line and Sam got up and crossed to Dean, hauling him to his feet. “Crossroads. Now.”

Five minutes later, Dean had downed his coffee in two long swallows and they were back on the road, headed southeast for Greenwood, Mississippi.

The silence was thick in the car as they drove. Dean would have killed for an argument about Motorhead or Metallica right then, but Sam only brooded. The hours stretched on and on and on. It was going to be days. Days of not knowing; days with an aggravated, jumpy Sam.

Sam seemed to be coming to the same conclusion. “I could call Bobby,” he finally said, “Find a closer one.”

“No. That man’s already dressed me down enough about this.”

“When?”

Dean sighed. “At the salvage yard.”

“And he didn’t ask how long you got?”

“Maybe he did. I was still.... I kind of blocked it out.”

Sam sighed. “You know it could be any second. Dad didn’t get any time. It could be--”

“It won’t be. The bastard gave me the blood. He wanted to use me. Like he had plans for me.”

“Like he had plans for _me_?”

“Maybe,” Dean said, his voice flat.

“But he’s gone. Doesn’t that--”

“D’you think I know, Sam?! Could you just... We don’t know. Okay? You freaking out doesn’t....”

Sam shook his head. “It doesn’t help us right now. I guess I better try to stop thinking that you’ll drop dead any second.”

“Yeah. Could you?”

Sam sat back in his seat, muting the flow of emotions between them with a quickly-constructed shield.

Dean took a deep breath and allowed calm to settle around him once more. As long as he didn’t look at Sammy, he could hold the calm close, the steady beat of the music, the roll of the wheels over the road filling his awareness and keeping him centered once more.

He could do this.

*~*~*

As soon as the car stopped outside of Lloyd’s, Sam was out the door and off like a shot toward the trunk. He gathered the black cat bone and the herbs together in record time, going by his freakish memory, and he had his own photo in the box before Dean could protest.

“You know it’s my deal,” Dean offered by rote as soon as he saw the box in Sam’s hand.

“And what leverege have you got left?” Sam asked.

Dean shrugged. “Yeah,” he said. “I get it.”

They stood together and waited, nearly shoulder to shoulder, and again he took comfort in the warmth of Sam beside him.

The demon, dressed in a brunette in a skimpy black dress, came up behind them and tapped Sam on the shoulder.

“Little Sammy Winchester, back from worm food. Now that is something you don’t see every day.”

Sam spun, reaching for her wrists and pinning them behind her back, advancing on her until they were backpedaling together toward the car. He slammed her up against the Impala.

“Ooh. This one likes to play rough, doesn’t he?” She tried to push off from the car and was stuck fast in her place. “Nice move, Sam. So, what is it you want, anyway?”

“Tell me the terms of his deal,” Sam said, harsh and bitten off.

“Now, why would I want to do that?”

“Because I’ve got all night.”

“And all day,” Dean put in.

“And all night.”

“Is that supposed to scare me?”

Dean reached into his pocket and removed his lighter, lighting it on the first try. “I don’t know, you tell us.”

Flame touched borrowed skin and she laughed through the pain. 

Until she wasn’t laughing anymore.

“Fine, fine, fine! Stop!” Her breath came in ragged bursts and she was trying to shrink away from Dean even as Sam held her tightly in place.

“It’s one-- It’s one year! From last-- Thursday. Okay? Let me go. Just let me _go_.”

Sam spoke the exorcism by rote and Dean kept his expression blank as he waved goodbye to her.

They peeled out, and when they were a good sixty miles away, Sam made the call to emergency services.

They had what they needed.


	29. Book 2: The Righteous Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is eternity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnd skipping forward due to time scale....I could have changed events but then you all wouldn't have the original 'verse as written so...this is what it says on the tin.

Dean is steel, thick and unbending. When the knives come out, he swears he can feel sparks moving through him and through him and up to meet them. The pain is nothing like what he has felt before. It is nothing, nothing.

Inside of him is an endless chasm, wind and ice cold and nothing.

He screams the name like a pulse, a litany where the beats of his heart should be. He has to remember, that is all he has to do, his brother's name on his lips like a balm, like a prayer, pushing everything else away. The knives come down, move through his soul like jagged fire, but all he needs is one word, needs to know one thing.

_Sam._

He grows tired of his own voice, exhausted by his own game, his throat so ragged that every time he opens his mouth things shift and slide, blood erupts over his tongue and he is met by pain like eating glass. Still, he says his prayer, holds his knowledge close around himself like a shroud.

Alastair's words, his cuts, slip around him like water, wicked away by Dean's protection, by his belief. 

The cuts and pulls, the rips and tears, spread him thin over the entire rack, like his skin pulled tight over the whole of the frame. He is only the molecules of his soul singing in a cacophony of pain.

Sometimes Alastair isn't himself. Sometimes he is Sam. 

Dean holds his own, imagines his brother holding the pieces of him together, and he goes numb, feels nothing as his flesh rends and knits again. Sam is here, just Sam, and the sight of him brings Dean peace he probably shouldn't be feeling.

He can't feel much else anyway.

Time stretches on and on. At first he tries to mark his time, but the only thing he can really tell is the snick and pull of different blades along his flesh, the feel of Alastair’s essence when he becomes less solid, the press of demon smoke against Dean’s wounds, a sudden burn of fire right up against the fabric of his soul, and the blood, always the blood.

Sometimes Alastair introduces him to others, ones who have earned the special privilege of a day destroying Dean Winchester. In some ways these days are worse. Their cuts are slower, less practiced, their enthusiasm somehow coming from a deeper, darker place. Hell still hurts them, and they are not like Alastair, who is content, is _home_ here. They need to fight back. Their souls are full of hate, their desire to end him. When his essence reforms in front of their eyes, they are only filled with anger, with a desire for all to end.

Alastair and Dean know full well that there is no such ending.

This is eternity.

Then a soul comes that he hasn’t seen before, one that used to be a woman. There is something about the way she moves, the way her energy brushes against his, that he remembers. He sniffs, and her scent comes to him, darkness and sulphur and deepest rage, so thick that it is smoky against his senses. The rage is old somehow, fanned to a new intensity, but it is something that he remembers.

She dips her hand inside of him, pulling parts of him free from their moorings, and when their souls touch he knows: _Meg._

She smiles, pulls his top half free of the rack so that her eyes meet his. They are socket-less, bits of viscera holding them dangling from the place where they should be, and yet her lip curls in recognition. She knows him well enough now, down to the very fabric of him, and when she works it is with a fervor he has only seen in Alastair before.

She props him up so that he can watch her while she works, holding her knife like a lover, sheer joy filling the space between them.

_Today you’re mine._

The space between them shimmers. Dean remembers this, too; the sudden numbness, the flow of emotions, of peace. He can see--

For the first time, he sees Sam, richer and more beautiful than the sight of him has ever been before. He thinks back, tries to remember if he has actually _seen_ his brother in all the times he has known Sam to stand in for Alastair.

He can’t remember. There is only the sheer beauty of seeing him now.

Sam comes up behind Meg, holding his half-moon knife. It comes down three times. Meg’s hands separate from the rest of her, the knife still lodged deep inside of Dean, keeping him separate from himself. Meg’s head rolls away from the rest of her, a thick thump against the floor of Dean’s chamber, as if she is solid, as if she really could die here.

Dean sees Sam’s face, splattered with thick swathes of demon blood, black as night against his flesh. Sam is more solid than anything else here. He is-- He is--

Sam bends down, removes the knife from inside of him. 

He lays his hands against Dean’s essence, and Dean is filled with a sense of peace, of love.

He senses wetness, and he looks into his brother’s eyes. Sam is crying.

Dean has never seen Alastair show the barest emotion, apart from pride, of joy at the perfect cut.

Alastair doesn’t cry. But Sam does, oh, Sam does.

_Sammy, don’t. You can’t be here._

But he is.

Somewhere in the dark, he hears Meg’s laughter.

_Every night, child. Every one of his nights, he smells your blood. Just as it’s always been. He has no one to save him now. He thinks he can save you. And you let him. You allow the space._

He can’t believe he’s never thought of this before.

_There’s only one thing that you can do._

He shouldn’t be listening to her, he shouldn’t. But Sam is here, and Dean finds a new ache in his chest and it needs to stop, he can’t-- Sam can’t be here, he can’t see this.

_What?_

_Come home to us, Dean. Choose._

He writhes under Sam’s hands, wills him away, wills the comfort away. He has never fought before, but now he does, with every fiber that remains of his being. _Go, Sam. Please. This is no place for you._

 _No!_ Sam fights for a grip on him. _Not until I save you._

The feeling in his chest only intensifies. _Let me do the time._

_Not without me, Dean._

_LEAVE._ Dean puts all of himself behind the word. He pushes Sam away.

He will never call for his brother again.

He can feel Sam’s rage and hurt filling the void between them. _You don’t get to decide that_ , he growls. _This isn’t over._ Sam turns from him, and all he feels is relief. He finds the place where Sam’s soul connects to his and rips it free, flinging it away. There is a final snap and the peace is gone. He is ready.

When he returns, Alistair only has one question. And Dean answers.


	30. Book 2: Lazarus Come Forth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean finds his way home, but he has his work cut out for him.

Dean clawed his way up and out, first busting the coffin lid with one good, hard punch. Under the weight of the dirt, his fingers were near to breaking, his throat filling with sod, eyes closed tight and his frame moving with the need for survival. He clawed and heaved, moving on instinct alone, lizard brain engaged and shouting for air, for water, for life.

After the first few unbelievable moments, he didn’t remember the journey upward. If he had paused to think, he would have been dead all over again.

His hands broke free to air, bloodied and ragged, the barest breeze sending shocks of pain all along his nerves.

He didn’t think until he had swayed and stumbled the whole way to the gas station, suddenly surrounded by the signs of civilization. He nearly tripped over himself and fell to the floor at the sight of water (smears of his blood along the handle, the clear glass of the cooler), throat constricting at the thought of forcing liquid through it after all the dirt, all the _pressure_.

He forced the water down anyway, gagged around it, throat full of knives but it was nothing, not compared to anything eternity had taught him.

The pain of the journey was excruciating, blood weeping from him, skin rubbed raw everywhere, vision blurred, ears ringing, mind fogged. But still, it was nothing, nothing he hadn’t survived a thousand times below.

There was the barest flicker at the corner of his vision, a flap of wings at the edge of his muddled hearing and then--a sudden pain that filled his attention with its newness, a burn along his shoulder like the heat of fire and he stood straighter, he moved faster, no longer stumbling.

_Hello, Dean._

He spun, agile and lithe once more, looking for the source of the voice. It came to him like only one other ever had, but it wasn’t Sam.

A strange calm settled over him even as his internal alarm bells began going off. He stumbled into the bathroom behind the register and looked himself in the eye in the mirror. No blood. No ragged skin. Even his throat felt different, something approaching normal.

Something had happened, but Dean couldn’t piece it all together.

He wanted to blame Sam--wanted to find him and blame him for pulling off some cosmic stunt, but the rush job on his failing body, that was too big, even for Dean’s psychic wonder of a brother.

_Sam._

Dean focused his attention, reached--and found nothing.

He couldn’t breathe. His heart slammed in his chest, pulsed in his ears.

There was no golden light at the back of his mind, no line from his heart to Sam’s, nothing.

_Sam loomed over him, half-moon knife in one hand thick with the black blood of a demon, falling from his brother’s hand and he ran his hands along Dean’s body, desperate to soothe. Sam was the most solid thing here in hell, so fully human, so filled with love that he shone here in the cold darkness, glowing golden-white and pure._

_He writhed under Sam’s hands, pushing him away, hoping desperately to be left in peace, to do the time, live out the eternity he accepted as his lot._

_Of course Sam would never understand. So he did done the only thing he knew would keep Sam away. Pulled the strand of power that had held them together at the level of the soul and ripped it free, willed it apart with every fiber of himself, watched it scatter to dust amid Sam’s protests that this wasn’t for Dean to decide._

_And Sam hadn’t come again. But Alastair had, took his hand possessively as he climbed down from the rack, and smiled black and oily on the face he wore._

He forced himself to breathe slow and soft, focus, calm himself again. He had done what was necessary, and radio silence didn’t mean--it didn’t mean--

He forced all his attention on the idea of his brother, called to mind the purity and the love he had felt on the last day he spent on the rack. He called to mind dog-eared Star Wars paperbacks and bug collections, A-plus papers and mint chocolate chip ice cream cones. He brought to mind--Sam, and then he _sought_ like he had a thousand times before, aiming only for a glimpse of his brother’s aura, confirmation that after everything Sam was still here, still topside, like his deal had meant to guarantee.

He caught a flash of something, dark and dank and bloodied, flashes of white cutting through like sudden lightning and dying off again. There was no gold to be found, no brilliance. All sickening darkness and slickness of blood and a terrible pulse that set his teeth on edge.

The vision was like a punch to his gut, knocking him flat to the floor, and the water he drank came up again as he heaved, shaking, bile coating his throat and spilling along the tile. 

It was then that Dean knew--there were worse things than death.

_Sammy._

A brush like the softness of bird wings along his cheek and the voice came back to him. _We will do what we can. We will find a way in the dark._

*~*~*

Sam stood in his space brandishing a knife, screaming. _”What are you?”_ One-two quick step and he had Sam’s wrist in one hand, bending it behind Sam’s back and working the knife free. He let the silver cut him, then dumped salt on his tongue and opened a flask of holy water to dump it on himself.

“It’s me, Sam.”

“It’s him, Sam. It really is. I did all the tests myself,” Bobby said. 

“Then why-- I don’t--” Sam locked eyes with him. “I don’t feel anything,” he said.

“I know,” he said simply, holding Sam’s gaze, telegraphing to his brother that he didn’t want to take this discussion anywhere near where it was about to go, not now, maybe not ever. 

“Last time I didn’t, you were--”

“I know.”

“How are we gonna get it back?”

He thought of the glimpse he had gotten of Sam’s aura, how it compared to the relative darkness he had been proficient at clearing away when they were young, when Sam would dream. Bile rose in his throat at the thought of comparing then to now.

He had no idea. Didn’t even know, anymore, if they should want it back. Not with what Sam would see when it flared back to life. Not with what he might see about Sam.

The bond had always made them stronger, helped them be a unified front, kept them safe. Hadn’t it?

 _Except whenever one of us tried to throw it away_ , he thought.

So this. This was his fault too, this dark thing that Sam had become. He swallowed down spit and bile and forced himself to hold his brother’s gaze.

No words would ever make this better. But he had to try a few.

“We’ll figure it out, Sam,” he said.

Sam nodded, chin-jerk nod just like Dad’s that meant the discussion had been sufficient, subject closed.

He breathed easier, watched the tight-coiled tension ease out of his brother’s muscles, noted a wetness in Sam’s eyes as he moved forward, arms outstretched.

“Jesus-- _Dean_ ,” Sam said, and locked Dean into a bone-crushing embrace.

“We’re okay, Sammy,” he said, and he wished that he felt any truth behind the words.

For now, all he could do was hold on to Sam.


	31. Book 2: Turnabout is Fair Play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triple drabble. Season 4.

There is nothing but darkness, an endless sea of it, thick and pressing in on him from every direction, hard and suffocating. He hears breathing nearby, slow and even, knows he is being watched from somewhere, by someone. He just can’t see, he can’t move, he can’t--

All he can do is wait.

He has nothing but time, endless time, and the feeling of pressure all around.

Then, a voice.

_Dean! Come on. Wake up._

Something comes through the darkness, an added pressure on his arm, in his hair, cutting through the darkness and bathing him in a golden light. And he opens his eyes.

He swims up to consciousness, feeling warmth bloom through him. Sam leans down, close, his hair unruly and sweat-soaked, like Sam rose from his own nightmare to wake him. He almost laughs. _We’re coming full circle_. And then he does, bitter and harsh in the near-silence. He feels Sam covering him in the light that is theirs and no one else’s and he thinks, _How? They’ve shared dreams, but the dreams have always been Sam’s before_ , Dean rushing to get out of bed, cover Sam with warmth and safety and pull away the darkness.

Some things change.

He looks into Sam’s eyes, finding fear and uncertainty. He swears he can smell iron. He feels anger rise. He has earned that much. He knows where Sam goes, knows what the scent on his breath means, or thinks he does. But all that he finds are his own memories, what the scent of blood has meant to him for the last ten years, what it has made him do. In the grand scheme of things, he imagines Sam still an innocent. It’s easier.

”I thought it would different for us,” Sam says.

He can’t help but agree.


	32. Book 2: Reconnection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean has a moment of clarity about what he's done. And about Sam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Season 6, specifically 6.07, Dean has hurt soulless Sam significantly. I did not understand everything in my notes here (I wrote this at the time of the episode, so it is a significant amount of time ago.) I left it as is, as with much of this material.

There is blood on his hands. Sam’s blood. He looks at his hands, dark smudges along the creases of his fingers, and his vision swims. He feels sick. The room tips and sways. He looks up to see Sam’s head bobbing in time with the dips and whirls of his vision and he thinks: Now? Now he feels this? For weeks he has been questing in the dark, reaching with the bond to find anything, any trace of the Sam he knows.

Spirit chooses now to show its face.

When Dean has just spent the last hour beating, lifting, dragging, tying knots. His knuckles are swollen and his hands are bloody and there is Sam. Sam who Dean was sure, was sure, wasn’t Sam. Until now.

Dean tries to remember the last time he’s felt Sam’s pain like this, his physicality so in the forefront of Dean’s awareness.

He can’t remember a time like this, he thinks, as his stomach rolls and his vision clouds over.

But he knows it’s Sam. He knows that much.

He knows it like he hasn’t from the jump.

 _Better late than never._ It may never be more true than right now.

He crosses the room to the chair Sam is tied to and he starts to work through the knots.

Sam groans in pain and Dean swallows hard. He can’t take back the punches, the kicks-- _Jesus, I damn near kicked his head in_ \--but he can untie the knots, he can--

 _How do you apologize for a near death experience?_ he asks himself, and he’s going to be sick, he is. Sam moves his head again and blinks his eyes and Dean knows he can’t see, because Dean barely can.

He’s nearly killed his brother.

He’ll never get all the blood off.

He lets the ropes burn him, lets his hands ache. Feels the line between them roar to life with everything Sam feels--on the outside.

It’s never been like this before, but as Dean starts to feel every twinge and throb that comes off of Sam he thinks _this_ is some kind of poetic justice.

“Dean?” It’s tentative. Sam can still find him in the whirling, tilting dark. That is something to be grateful for, Dean thinks, it’s proof of something. And it’s all the proof he needs. Something is wrong, but what’s wrong can be fixed. Because he...feels...Sam.

"Yeah. Yeah, Sam."

“What are you doing?”

"I called Cas. I really... I fucked up. So I called him. I guess he’ll be here soon, if he can." He’s babbling, like he does when he’s nervous enough, not expecting Sam to process this at all. The words are for Dean. “Sammy, tell me you won’t bolt on me, okay?”

He’s met with silence.

He deserves silence.

“Dammit, _say_ something.”

“Dean?”

He works through the last of the knots, but holds Sam in place with an arm anchoring them both, hand (still bloody, fuck) curled over Sam’s bicep. He knows that if Sam could see he’d find abject horror in his eyes, all over his face. “Sorry, Sammy, Jesus.”

“For what?” Sam asks. Like _how’s the weather?_

"For what? I beat the snot out of you. That bitch, she... just... she said... and I just.... Jesus, I'm... That _bitch._ ”

He takes a deep, shuddering breath and tries not to lose his vision again, but Sam is barely gaining his, he knows, and what Sam sees, Dean sees. It’s nothing good. “I fucked up. Can't believe I did that to you. That _bitch_."

"Oh. Yeah. That.” Sam is nonplussed.

For his part, Dean can barely breathe. He won’t let go of Sam’s arm. He can’t. He needs Sam, needs this sudden certainty that whatever is wrong, this _is_ his brother. No one else would be able to hold the bond, send anything down it. He hasn’t felt Sam like this since before the cage, since he held every memory of Sam out in that field and fed them to his brother, helping Sam use his humanity to take hold of Lucifer and go down swinging.

Sam reaches out and brushes Dean's cheek with the backs of his fingers. He studies Dean's face, like Cas does. Quizzical and searching. "What's the matter?"

"I just... I almost killed you, Sammy, that bitch wanted me to, it was like she grabbed hold of everything I've ever been pissed off about and pulled it outta me, and you were there to take the fall." He knows this is too much for Sam to process. He can't stop talking, can't stop the flow, fear and shame and misery and pain and... 

Sam shrugs his shoulders and he can’t hold back a groan. But his words don’t indicate any anger at all. No emotion at all. "Doesn't matter." 

Then Dean notices. Sam’s skin is already re-knitting itself. "Woah. That's new." But it’s under his breath, something he will tell Castiel.

"She was right, about me. I wish--I should be sorry, Dean. For what I did to you. For Lisa. I wish I could be sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Dean. But I knew-- you’d think I was broken. I tried to stay away."

"I didn't want you to, I never want you to."

"Yeah, but you didn't know I was... this.” 

He focuses on the one thing he knows is real. That he can feel Sam again. That the bond works again. He wraps his words up in that. “You're my brother." He puts it all into the one word. He puts _everything_ into it, like he did in that field. He watches Sam for some reaction to the force of his emotions.

Sam’s only response is to narrow his eyes.

“All this... You said it was better with me. You don’t get to take that back. What the hell did you mean, if not--?"

Sam rushes to speak. "No, no! It is! I mean, I am. Inside. Except when I hunted, before, it's was just _me_. Didn’t want you to lose everything."

"Fuck, I never had it to begin with, Sammy. I was kidding myself."

"You did. I saw you did."

"Well, it doesn't matter now. It’s gone again. And-- We just gotta fix you. Because its gonna fix me. Okay? Think on that. And what the fuck we're gonna tell Cas, because he’ll be here soon.”

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

"What do you think it is?"

“I don't know, man, but it is both of us and it is fucked up. Can I-- look, there's something I gotta tell you." He sees a window of opportunity, a tiny silver lining. He can tell Sam damn near anything and not risk a flip-out.

Sam seems to have the same idea. "Yeah, anything."

"Okay. When I was in hell. It was different. I get that. But there was this day. The last day. Before I-- I had this dream of you, dreaming of me. And I thought of the bond... keeping you too close, showing you what was happening, and I couldn’t deal. I couldn’t, Sammy, and I cut the line. And then I stopped needing you to be there, you get me? I could do what needed to be done. I got off the rack. Only I was... I was totally cut off."

“Since you’ve been back... I still feel totally empty. Worse than ever. I couldn’t _feel_ you. That's why I beat the shit out of you."

“I just... I need you to be _fixed_. Because I feel cut off. Like I'm missing an _arm_ , man. At a minimum. It’s been more like... Like I’m missing so much, not feeling you here. But I do now. It’s like-- having my _self_ back, now that I can feel you."

“Oh.”

“You don’t feel the same.”

“No. I don’t feel anything, Dean. There’s something really wrong. I’m-- I’m dangerous. You’ve got to be careful. Tell me you’ll be careful.”

“You care about that. Why, Sammy?”

“Because you’re my brother.” Simple. What they’ve always said. Always.

He searches Sam's face to see if there is emotion behind those words. There isn't. Just Sam searching back.

"Fuck. We are so fucked. I seriously-- Just... Okay, look. Do you have a better idea than Cas?"

"No. I tried. He didn't answer."

“That was your best guess too right? Fuck. God, Sam. This is both of us. They fucked both of us." He feels sick. His gut twists, the room spins again. "We have to fix this. I'll do anything."

Sam reaches slowly to grab Dean's arm, seeming to wait and see if he'll flinch away, and when he doesn't he grips his forearm tight, and Dean feels grounded again. "Don't ... hurl,"

Dean almost laughs.

He looks at Sam, wants not to see what he's done to his brother. No dice, though. That sobers him up quickly. "What about Missouri? It's kind of stupid, she just does hoodoo, but I used to... you know I used to call her. Right? And she has the advantage of, well, not being a dick."

Sam shrugs. "Sure. Whatever you think, Dean."

He takes a deep breath. "Hold on a second, gonna try something, and I might do more than hurl." He finds the place inside of him where the line used to be, until it wasn’t, and then was again.

"Wait, Dean! What happens if - when you fix it? The things I .. uh. What if I can't handle - sometimes don't people go crazy?"

"Yeah. I guess they do, Sam. But we gotta try anyway. And if you're crazy, I'll be right there with you."

Sam curls his fingers into the edges of the bed and grips hard, closing his eyes. He whispers. "And we have to fix it. Right?"

"We have to fix it or we are both fucked six ways from Sunday."

"Okay."

"Now let me... try this. Okay?"

Sam nods. 

Dean probes down the line, not knowing what to expect, but reaching with it, reaching for Sam. Maybe if he can just connect it.... It's probably a pipe dream. But it's his and it's something.

Sometime in the midst of all this, Dean realizes, they have twined their fingers together. He relishes this. The solid touch is good. He watches Sam close. He isn’t sure what he feels yet. He waits for some cue.

"What do you feel?"

"Pressure. Here." Sam touches his chest.

Dean presses harder. He looks for the other side of the line. Sam’s side. He searches, but the space inside of Sam is limitless. He can't, he can't fucking fix it, he cant see what he needs to see, he can’t even _find_ Sam's line, dammit.

Sam’s hand in Dean’s starts to shake. Soon it is body-wide. But he can’t stop now.

“Right here, Sammy.” He takes his half of the line, buries it deep, and ties it off inside of Sam.

He waits. Then: "What is that?"

"I-- I don't know. It's -" his hands are shaking.

"Good, bad, hurts, doesn’t hurt, what?"

"It - I can't breathe," he grabs at Dean's hand. His breathing is hard and fast.

"Fuck." He buried it too deep, he did something wrong, he fucked it up. He pulls on his side of the line, finds the end, or close enough, and hacks it away. Everything rebounds like a rubber band. Sam’s breathing slows to normal pace again. "This is why we need... someone else."

Something’s off and Dean looks down. He’s gripped Sam’s hand hard enough to draw blood with his nails. "Shit." Injuring Sam again, not on the agenda. He tells himself it is something small. That his not being able to fix all this is not the fuckup of the millenium. It just feels like it. It feels a little bit like dying. But he doesn’t let himself stop and feel that. He gets out his cell phone, about to dial-- _someone’s_ number.

Still shivering, Sam lays down. He snags the hems of Dean's jacket sleeve and tugs him closer, closes his eyes and whispers "Don't call. Try it again."

He doesn’t have to be told twice. He is shaking now. He needs... he needs to _fix_ this, he needs to feel. Since the first punch... It's been since the first punch. Something inside of him just turned _off_ and now... he needs it back. Needs Sam back. He lays down beside Sam, like they did when they were kids, when Sam would dream. He makes sure he holds onto Sam tight.

Then he picks up the line and sends it into Sam again.

Dean watches Sam close, in the back of his head he holds a vision of the line. He fans it like flames.

There is something. A ghost of a whisper, more like a memory. Peace. Peace flowing from Sam to Dean.

"It feels ... warm. Like the ocean." 

Sam goes still. "Tired. Dean. I'm tired."

"Yeah? I would be fucking dead..."

"No, Dean. _Dean._ I haven't slept."

"In how long?"

"Since .." He closes his eyes. "Since Lucifer."

"Holy shit, Sam. Were you gonna tell me?"

Mumbles, eyes sliding shut. "No."

Dean can live with it. He's tired too. Exhausted. All this time without Sam and now.... now there is something. A small something.

Sam almost whispers. "Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Can - can you stay?"

"Where would I go, Sammy?"

"I mean the - this. Is it hurting you?"

Dean is shaking a little, now that he thinks about it, but hurt... no. "Feels like home. Feels like it's supposed to be."

Sam nods. "Good."

And they drifted into dreamless sleep, together.


	33. Book 2: Reflecting Pool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe this is what losing your mind feels like. Dean doesn’t know. He only knows Sam’s been asleep for three full days when something happens that he doesn’t expect. At all. But, in hindsight, he probably could have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean tries to make Sam's soul "go" properly.

_He sits on the cold stone floor, staring. This is it. This is Sam not moving at all, not responding to anything, just lying there._

_The IV had been Bobby’s idea, a fail-safe they had put in place at hour forty-seven, and_ Jesus Christ _, how long did Bobby really think this was going to go on for? How long was he willing to let it go on for?_

 _He sits there, staring down the inevitable, the impossible, of Sam just... never waking up, never coming back, and God dammit, it was the same every time they were down here, every_ fucking _time, it was him waiting for Sam to die, waiting for everything to catch up to them, when it was supposed to be different, everything was supposed to be different because_ they were _, and they should have been able to beat this thing with all the forewarning they had had but it never_ was _different, not once, not when it really counted._

_Because here he is, sitting, frigid and shaking and waiting for Sam to die._

_This is the last time, he knows it is._

_He sits and he waits and he knows and oh, God, Sam. It starts up like a prayer, like a plea, but he knows now that Sam’s soul is there, he can feel it from here, that he has Sam at arm’s reach and yet--and yet--it might not be enough._

Or, that would be what he was thinking, if he could think at all, if something hadn’t short-circuited in his brain around hour fifty-three, if he hadn’t simply run completely out of gas, out of any idea of what to do because this is it, he is worn down and staring sightlessly at nothing, because Sam is here and not here and it’s been six months of a fresh, new hell, nightmares and terror in his every waking moment with the Terminator riding inside Sam’s skin. And even when he thought he’d found the way, even when he had felt Sam at peace and sleeping again, even just for one night, he hadn’t been able to sustain it, he hadn’t been enough. And now it’s worse than anything, Sam on an IV, unconscious, not moving, and Dean knowing the soul is in place but Sam just a-- just nothing, just _empty_ because Dean doesn’t have it in him to-- to what?

He doesn’t know, can’t think past _Sam is dying_ , can’t muster any other thoughts. He just stares. He just. He just stares.

This is impossible. 

This is the end.

His vision blurs and doubles and his cheeks are wet and his mind is blank. He doesn’t have more of a reserve, there is no plan, no game to play out. 

He’s been staring his brother down for seventy hours now, but soon, very soon, none of that will matter. 

And then. Then he hears it. On the very edge of his awareness, the outer reaches of everything, barely there at all but somehow finding its way to him... his name. His name. Someone calling him, and oh, Jesus, please let it be Sam.

Dean has his vision back again in the next instant, zeroed in on his brother, and he reaches out a hand to rest over Sam’s heart.

Then he _sees_ , sees his brother in his mind’s eye clear as day, sees Sam screaming, nothing but one endless scream contorting his face and he thinks of the way Sam screamed for Dean to stop Death, screamed over and over but that wasn’t his brother--wasn’t. Dean looks past him to a Sam who sits to the other side of his field of vision, sitting cross-legged in hospital scrubs and rocking himself as he slowly cries and this Sam, this Sam might be it, might be his, except--

He sees something else, just a circle of light, flickering with white flashes like lightning and a mottled, sickly yellow that deepens to green and back again, a thousand pieces clear in his vision, barely holding together.

 _Dean. Dean, please._. He scans the vision again and then he knows. This is Sam’s soul, calling to him. He aches suddenly with the cold, feels it filling him and yet--

He knows where Sam is, knows he can finally get to him, knows there is a chance.

_Sammy, I’m coming._

*~*~*

Dean stands before the wall. He tries to see through, knows he is seeing Sam, the thousand pieces of his brother. He is looking into a pool of reflections. Each ripple is a different mirrored image of Sam; different times, different places, sleeping and waking, smiling or achingly desperate. He stands before the impossibly smooth surface, mesmerized. He sinks to his knees before the endless visions of his brother and his mind stops again, just stops, and he can’t stop staring, he just wants-- so badly, he-- _Sammy_.

And somehow, he must have been heard, because he hears a reply, quiet and searching.

_Dean, please._

From behind. Behind.

He thinks about pulling back a fist and letting the wall shatter, but he sees so many Sams, so much of his brother, that his blood runs cold with fear.

_Sammy, I need you to come out from behind there, okay?_

_Come here. Out here. Please, Sam._ Dean’s begging, at a loss for what else to say, what could compel his brother out of hiding.

But Sam doesn’t come to him. Instead he finds himself floating, rising up over the thousand images of his brother and skimming the top of the wall. He doesn’t catch on it, never touches it, and somehow lands safely on the other side, like he is meant to be here, like he’s been summoned.

And then he sees. He sees Sam. This Sam is real, is three-dimensional and solid. Shaking. Slowly, slowly, shaking apart, he realizes with something like horror thrown in with his immense relief.

Sam sits at the base of the wall, curled into a ball with his head buried in between his knees. He's trembling, but not moving otherwise. Around him, wind and rain rage, the air full of lightning. But Dean walks through the storm, like walking through molasses, but it doesn't touch him. It parts in front of him. Like Sam knew he was coming. 

Sam is naked, his form covered in blood, some wet and oozing, some dry and flaking off of him as he shivers. It covers the ground all around him in an impossibly wide circle.

 _Sammy?_ He doesn’t know if he should touch, but, blood or no, he aches to hold his brother, to test the reality of his form in his arms.

He reaches out, desperate, his chest aching preemptively, trying... trying to see past the blood. He’s seen worse before, when they were kids, when... but this is worse, this is Sam, but he has to think he has a chance, he needs Sam like air, like water and food and safety and _everything_.

The blood isn't fresh. It looks caked-on, like something seared his wounds to stop the bleeding.

Sam cringes away from Dean’s touch, crab-walks backwards until he’s flush with the wall, squinting and covering his eyes with one arm like Dean is too bright for him to see.

 _You’re okay, Sammy, okay? I’m here. Right here. I got you. Okay?_ He closes a hand around Sam’s arm, a gesture Sam will know, something grounding.

He feels Sam slowly shaking apart under his hand, dried blood flaking with bone and skin and--

 _Go away_ , he hears Sam hiss in his mind, and he almost laughs, high and hysterical, because it’s him, it’s his brother, not making a sound but calling down the line.

_Nope. No dice, kid._

Sam squints at him. _Who are you?_

 _Dean. Your brother_. He doesn’t let go. If he lets go, there is no telling where Sam will go, where he will have to chase him. He doesn’t know. This isn’t his place.

Sam scoffs. _Brothers lie._

_Not this time, Sammy. Not this time. I got all the time in the world, and I’ll be right here._

Sam looks straight through the light then, and his eyes are blazing, soul-light bleeding out from behind bloody sockets, and the ground around them rumbles, but his hands shake and waves of fear radiate from him. He says it again, more forcefully this time. _Who ARE YOU?_

 _Dean. Your brother._ Memories skitter across the surface of Dean’s mind and he sends them right Sam’s way. The Impala. Zeppelin streaming by. The piece of Lego, the melted toy soldiers, Sam laughing in shotgun, the plastic spoon settled in Sam’s mouth as he sleeps. Itching powder. Crazy Glue.

He watches the memories float on a beam of light that settles behind Sam’s ribs. Sam’s posture shifts into something Dean might call relaxed if it wasn’t for the way Sam cringed in pain.

Sam grabs Dean’s hand in his, gripping hard, bony ends of fingers splintering through burnt skin, disintegrating.

 _Dean?_ So soft it barely reaches Dean’s ears. So desperate that Dean aches.

He watches the way Sam is slowly shaking apart and he suddenly thinks he might be sick, but he pushes past it. _Yeah. It’s me. Love you, Sammy. I got you now. We’re gonna make it back home. To the Impala. And I’ll let you play anything._ He tries on a smile, even though Sam can’t see it, isn’t really seeing him.

Sam holds out his other hand like he’s blind and feeling for where Dean is.

He leans in close. _Right here_.

Sam's eyes close, and he leans his head back against the wall. The storm goes still, wind retreating to clouds that hover ominously. Heat lightning flashes.

 _You want to--_ No, wait, that isn’t right, he can’t give Sam an option, he has to take control. But he speaks softly. _You’re coming with me._

_Where?_

_Home. The car. And. Right now we’re at Bobby’s, you’ve been sleeping three days. I decided to come and get you._ He won’t say that one touch brought him here, that he had no idea he was coming, that he even _could_ , even after all the times he’s been inside of his brother’s mind. He can’t tell Sam that grief had almost undone him. That won’t help.

Sam shakes his head. Raw pieces of flesh curled back at the edges quiver with the motion. Underneath, muscle and sinew glistens in the light of the storm. _You can't be here._

Dean smiles a little, forcing it onto his face. _You’re here. Automatically means I have a key made, Sammy. I only have one soul-mate._

Sam opens his eyes and looks up into the sky. Then he nods. _But I’ll never make it._

_I’ll be right here. Not letting you go, Sammy, not for anything. If you go down, I go down, but I am staying right here. My place is with you._

_Not here._

His throat goes thick, his eyes mist up. _If we have nowhere else we can go, then yes, here. With you. But I wanna take you home, okay? You trust me?_

Sam chokes then, a cough that turns into a sob, and he pulls Dean down closer, frantic, like a child. _Please, Dean, not here. Not here._

_Then we’re going. Hold on to me. Don’t let go, Sammy, you hear me?_

The lightning flashes, hits the ground nearby, and Sam flinches hard. He nods into Dean's chest, determined, but Dean realizes then that he can barely move, everything is slick with blood, he doesn't have to look to know that there's hardly anything to hold on with.

Dean cradles Sammy against his chest and holds on tight himself. Sam is still crumbling, bones turning to dust and gristle falling away, and Dean doesn’t want to hold on too tight, but he can’t let go, he won’t. Not for anything. He will take any Sam he can pull home with him. Any Sam that’s left.

_Grab my neck, hold on with all you got, Sammy._

He realizes Sam is trying to hold in a scream as he pulls him close, and it comes out in strangled, mindless, stifled cries of pain. Sam must be in agony, but he does like Dean asks him to.

_Just a little time now, Sammy. Don’t let go. Do you know which way we go?_

_Up. He's trying to kill me._

_Who? The Terminator?_

_Don't let him kill me._

_I won’t let anything happen to you_. Besides several deaths and a hundred years in hell, yeah, good one, Winchester. Batting a thousand.

 _It's no use. Help me._ Sam struggles weakly in Dean’s arms. _Not strong enough._

He thinks this through for a few seconds. He sees himself, the bright golden light of the power of his soul completely encasing Sam. They sink back to the ground, but Sam is protected. The bump when they hit the ground again is soft, barely there, as Dean cushions the fall for Sam. _Rest here with me._

Sam's heart is beating, exposed. He breathes the golden light in. A quick burst of the light swirls through his chest. Where it touches, the energy knits back together. Just the tiniest of strands. His eyes close, he sinks into the softness. 

Dean watches as his power works through his brother and he sends more of the golden light directly into Sam. Oh. Yes. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? _Don’t you fall asleep on me now, Sammy, this is the home stretch and you gotta stay awake. I got you. But you gotta stay with me._

There’s no response, and Sam-- he _dims_. It would be almost imperceptible if Dean wasn’t watching so close, something in his gut telling him to look for it--watch out for Sammy, don’t let him go now....

 _DAMMIT, Sammy, I said stay with me_. Suddenly he is livid, lost, his hope is starting to sputter, he isn’t sure, he doesn’t know this is going to work, he _needs_ Sam, needs him awake and present and just... _Sam, don’t, please... come on, stay with me._ Stay _with me. It’s Dean._ He says it like that should mean something. Maybe it really doesn’t anymore, not here where Sam can get so easily lost. But Sam said, he said... not here. He doesn’t want to stay here. Dean holds onto that. _Come on, Sammy._

Sam jerks, reaches out like he knows Dean’s there and he calls as if he’s miles away again. _Dean._

And Dean hears it. He would be able to hear it anywhere. Thank God. _Don’t scare me like that again, Jesus Christ._ He pours himself into Sam, not afraid, not afraid, not afraid. If Sam takes all of him... it will have to be enough. He’s ready. Ready for anything. Ready for this to be the end, ready to give it all to Sam. Anything. 

There is a rushing feeling, like the two of them are floating together. Dean gives in to it, or starts to, but then he realizes he has to keep his eye on Sam. Has to watch Sam for any change. Any indication that he’s ready. He has to get Sam out of here.

Sam comes back to him, focuses on him. A pulse: recognition. The lightning stops overhead.

Dean smiles weakly, sending more power Sam’s way.

Slowly, the threads work their way through Sam's body until he's whole. Dean knows it when the soul starts to glow, dim at first, then stronger. Sam's eyes snap open. He grabs the front of Deans' shirt, looking up at the sky. The storm clouds turn white, then vanish. _Now_ Dean hears. _Go now._

Dean nods, cradles Sam softly against his chest again. _Hold on_ , he says with more confidence now. Sam is glowing again. He has the right colors again. Golden and white streaks, so fucking beautiful, the most amazing thing Dean’s seen in months. Sam looks like himself again. Enough himself, anyway. Dean doesn’t have to be afraid. He kicks off from the ground and they start to float. _Out_ , he thinks, _let us out now._

Sam holds on to Dean, and everything else disappears into a whirl of light. 

The sky opens up.


	34. Book 2: Meeting of the Minds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam wakes slowly, like coming out of a fog.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Home stretch. Some things are being omitted because they veer too far off the main arc. I will have a separate series section (P2) with all outtakes. Some people will wish the outtakes were in the story, some will be glad they're not. :) I'm coming up on posting the end, but it needs a few more connecty bits and tweaks, and I have to be a real person for part of today, so I'll leave the very end for now.

Sam woke slowly, like swimming up through a fog. He found someone (Dean, of course it was Dean) sitting on the edge of the little bed, eyes trained directly on him.

He heard his brother calling him without words. _Come on, Sam, I’m begging you._

He reached out and settled his hand on Dean’s arm like his brother had braced him so many times in the past. He held on through the sudden shiver that shook Dean to his core.

The room was frigid and Dean was shaking and suddenly he remembered what had come before, screaming at Dean with all he had, until he was near hoarse, begging him not to let this happen, _please, God, Dean, no._

He remembered his mind stretching out like flat plains of emptiness, thousands of memories with no emotional push, no love or fear or happiness, just a flat expanse of nothing, and tucked inside was the vaguest idea of who Dean was at all, with no hope of anything more.

He remembered being so settled in that reality that he let Dean pummel him into unconsciousness without fighting back, that he found himself feeling nothing until Dean had miraculously found the bond again, used it to funnel emotions into him, and finally Sam had slept. Still, it wasn’t anything that Dean could sustain for any amount of time, and when Dean had finally pulled back he was hardly surprised.

He had learned it was possible to get used to anything, and without his emotions to tell him what was good or bad or just _there_ , he didn’t know where to begin to get anything back on his own terms.

He thought back to the day Dean had beaten him, when the bond had come flaring back to life. Dean had been able to amplify his own emotion and send it down the bond to him, giving him a taste of normality again. Dean hadn’t been able to maintain the feedback loop, and without the amplification, he couldn’t care enough to try.

But that was then and this, suddenly, was now. He tightened his grip on Dean, swaying under the pull of sudden emotion coming at him from all sides.

 _Dean_ , he called silently. _Come on, look at me, man_.

Dean shifted in place, looked up, and met his gaze. For a second his brother’s eyes glittered and then he saw Dean take a deep breath, watched his eyes clear and recognized the relief on his brother’s face.

He held his brother’s gaze and tried on a smile.

Small and shaky as it was, Dean answered it with his own and he swore he could feel the heat rush back into the room.


	35. Book 2: Just Rewards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is back. Sam is home. Sam is himself. But how do they stop the cycle?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is the 'verse, and this is its new conclusion. I eliminated a subplot, or at least toned it down considerably, because honestly, when I was writing it it was deeply unsettling and caused me to go into a major depression. I will gather the outtakes in a P2 of this series but I wished for ODAD to remain my happy place--and at this moment, with all the exhaustion that "ODAD Dean" has been through nursing this bunny for over 9 years...we both decided it would be best. I never intended for a few dark corners this 'verse went into, and this is not the ending as I originally imagined it but the one we came to as a compromise. There is a lot I can say, but ultimately I just hope you like what I could cobble together after 9 years. This would have been impossible without my Dreamwidth, which I completely re-found by accident. Without that, I wouldn't be reloading my fic onto this site for a number of reasons.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed Of Dreams and Demons and that the slightly plotholed choppiness wasn't a bother. I love this Dean with all my heart, and while he will continue to exist and is surely getting up to antics in the later seasons he has really earned his rest, and so has Sam.

Sam was back. Sam was back. Dean had realized it in the car driving away from Bobby's, in a fresh rush of emotion, Sam was here, with his soul, his soul Dean had somehow managed to stitch back in.

As for the rest... There was...the same hunger Dean had never been able to shake, piercing through his sleep, causing insomnia that was more dangerous than Dean liked to think about. The hunger. But for now it was at bay and they were in a room, safe in two beds and Dean slept and dreamed.

It was like so many of the other dreams, it was like so many, except….

A shrill scream that pierces his senses, a sound he’s heard a thousand times. In the dream, he says nothing. In the dream, he is four, he is silent, he is the Yellow Eyed Demon’s.

He is the Yellow Eyed Demon’s own boy. But.

He is Dean Winchester, son of Mary Winchester, who is screaming, screaming, screaming, and Dean sends. The yellow light. Somehow he can send the yellow light and he knows he is dreaming, there is another Dean who has learned his gifts and known what to do for Sam for years.

And he knows what to do now.

 

Suddenly he can feel Sam. Sam standing in the doorway and seeing this scene. He is tense. He knows what is happening but hasn’t ever seen it before. Dean can tell this is the first time, the first time that it is sinking in. And it is good they are together.

_Dean…_

_I got this._

Their mother’s skin is all red with darker sooty patches and she is engulfed in the yellow light and pulled. She is pulled down, from the ceiling, down the wall, to the floor. She runs and Dean has never seen his mother be athletic before and there’s something about this that rings a bell to lucid behind the scenes Dean.

Dean pulls.

He swims up from the dream, a process that takes longer when the dreams feel this way.

When it feels like knowing the cabin would burn.

When it feels like…

Dean opens his eyes and sees….

Eyes staring back at him from a face full of soot. But she is smiling.

He reaches out before he can stop himself and touches her and she’s warm and real and says, “Dean, thank you.”

Sitting on the end of his bed and she says thank you. To him. Thank you to him.

His emotions are a dull throb low in his belly and they can’t rise from there, he doesn’t know what to feel or do. He doesn’t move his hand away from her skin, cupping her shoulder now and thinking of Sam. But he can’t talk to Sam, not right in this moment, he can’t talk.

“You have to stop drinking down the darkness, craving the blood. I can help you.” She is matter-of-fact and here in the darkness and his own sweat Dean doesn’t think he has any room to protest.

Is he…

Is he going to be in the panic room? Is this the panic room?

He shudders. He has tried not to think of that place.

No. He is in bed.

The blood. She is here and she is solid and talking about the--

The what?

“The what? How do you….”

“A mother knows. A mother watches. A mother watches.”

Then he realizes how much his body hurts, with the pain of knowing he’s had his last fix. He shakes and leans over the side of the bed and she reaches to push his hair back while he retches onto motel carpet.

Sam crosses the room to them, finds them there, mother and son and so much pain it fills all the years that have come and gone since Dean’s first fever from an ear infection.

Dean doesn’t hold in the tears.

“I’ve been dreaming of you for three days,” Sam suddenly says, taking the words out of Dean’s mouth.

What?

“I have somewhere to take you,” Mary murmurs. “I told you. I can help. Both of you.”

“Mom--you just-- You just got here. I don’t understand--”

“Sssh, Dean. Ssh. It’s okay now. It’s all okay.”

He has a lump in his throat and he can’t, he just can’t, everything is moving so fast. Sam is so cool and collected. As if he knows--

\--where they are going. Their mother reaches up and touches their foreheads and it’s like falling back into the dream. Everything is cool grass and beautiful colors beyond anything Dean’s brain can even deal with.

“This is where I’ve been. And this is what I’ve built.” She touches each of them on the forehead again.

Dean’s heart fills. Memories. Memories more real than real. This place is more real than real. It is not heaven, for it belongs to his mother. And more. It belongs to everyone.

Everyone.

The memories tumble and slot together in his mind. 

A whole childhood. He remembers a whole childhood.

“Here,” she whispers, “Where I am...all of this happened. And it’s all real, Dean, it’s all real. It’s yours. It’s Sam’s.”

“I….”

“You’re still you. You’re okay. This is just...also you.”

“I knew it,” Sam says and gets one of his over-giddy grins on his face. “I knew it. I knew I’d find this place one day. Dean, it’s…”

Home. Not heaven. It’s home.

“Mom….” Dean reaches out to her, even as he feels all the empty places filling in his heart.

“This is also you,” she says and smiles. “You have been, you will always be, my home.”

“I don’t understand how--”

“Let it fill your heart, Dean, let yourself have something good. And Dean….”

“Mom?”

“The power is yours. And Sam’s. Do you understand me? Do you understand that you don’t need anything dark?”

“I think so.”

“You will be going home--to earth--for now. This is for you and Sam, Dean. You helped me get to you. And don’t worry. I know you want to go back, I know you want to be with your brother in your own world. It’s just…Dean, if you need help again...I will come for you. But you and Sam...you have so much to do. So much to do.”

Dean wants to let out some of the flood of emotions he is experiencing, but if he does he’ll never get Pandora’s box closed again. He looks over at his brother.

Sam stands in awe, just smiling, smiling, smiling, a real and genuine smile like Dean’s not even sure if he’s seen on his brother’s face before.

Oh, Sam.

“Dean,” Mary says. “You have done a good job. Against all odds, he is still here, so are you. I know what torture it must be. It’s a torture I wasn’t forced to go through. But I am your mother and I will be watching.”

The stars are so beautiful here. There are just stars and stars and stars lighting everything.

“You can do this, Dean. I believe in you.”

The darkness seems to evaporate then, all of the need drying up like it was never there, and his chest lightens and there are just stars, forever.

*~*~*

They both wake up, and when they do their mother is nowhere to be found. But they have found something else.

Dean pulls himself out of bed and crosses to Sam, who is sitting up now, smiling that same smile.

“Sam...that was mama.”

“I know.”

“I’m glad you got to meet her. The real way. Or whatever--whatever that was.”

“Dean. Come here.”

Dean does as he is told, standing at the edge of Sam’s bed.

Sam holds his arms out and Dean climbs into the bed with him like they’re kids. Sam shoves over.

“Dean, we’re okay.”

“Yeah, Sam.”

And they were. They held each other and they really were.

“You are my home,” Sam whispered. And Dean knew it was true.

Not before you’re mine, Dean sent down the bond, and it was pristine, sparkling with goodness and it was theirs. He pulled Sam closer.

And they slept the most peaceful sleep either of them had ever had.

**Author's Note:**

> If you literally cannot get enough of this 'verse, apparently neither can my brain lo these many years later. (Seriously, this 'verse is old!), and I've started a new one with slightly different parameters and a whole lot less brainpower (I've gotten sicker) and patience, so if you want more bonded boys than you just got, see "Definition of Hearts."
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/12138486/chapters/27763524


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